Amidst
by amelia day
Summary: "Nothing is infinite, not even loss. One day you are going to find yourself again."- F. Butler. Katniss is trying to come to terms with life. She finds Peeta along the way. Modern Day AU.
1. Prologue: Adrenaline

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins.**

A big thanks to my beta, fnur for all her help.

_Warning: This story is rated maturely for adult content, explicit language, and triggers including but not limited to: death/dying and self-harm._

For my good friend: Misshoneywell.

* * *

_"Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water, _

_And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes_

_you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home,_

_and you hav cried yourself to sleep enough times_

_that you are down to your last two percent, but_

_nothing is infinite_

_not even loss._

_You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day_

_you are going to find yourself again."_

_-Finn Butler _

* * *

Prologue: Adrenaline

* * *

In theory, I _should_ be stressed the fuck out right now.

The music is too loud. The slick road is disappearing beneath us too quickly. The turns are too sharp.

Typically, every single muscle in my body would tense with effort to stay calm, and my normally slack jaw would clench tightly as my teeth gritted inside. Overstimulation has always had a paralyzing effect on me.

But, when my eyes reopen and I see the sparkling pavement under our headlights, still wet and slippery from the rain earlier today, I feel nothing but excitement coursing through my veins.

_Adrenaline, right?_

Yeah, I'm pretty sure we just talked about this in biology. The adrenal glands. They like, secrete hormones and shit through the body in order to react to highly stressful situations. I had to laugh when my teacher first mentioned it, his voice monotone as he continued scribbling on the chalkboard. If his theory was correct (that the adrenal glands secreted hormones every time the body was stressed out) I should be on a fucking adrenaline high _all the time._

I release a small chuckle, wishing I could explain to Gale what was going through my mind without sounding completely _wasted. _Only_ I_ could be more than slightly buzzed and still be thinking about school and fucking _glands. _

Still, he hears me laugh from his spot behind the driver's wheel and smirks as he turns a corner sharply. (Non-buzzed Katniss would not approve).

"What's so funny?" he asks, a light laugh evident in his tone. His hair looks wild right now, sticking out in every direction and clinging to the top of the ceiling from static.

"Nothing," I insist, shaking my head. I reach up to run a hand through his hair and he releases a gentle smile in return, moving to turn the music up a couple more notches.

"Oh my god," he says, his tone laced with foreknowledge.

"What?"

"Admit it!" he urges, "You're having _fun. _Ha! Never thought I'd see the day where I got Katniss Everdeen to drink _and_ have fun at the same time!"

"Definitely not," I argue, but bite my lip to keep from releasing a traitorous smile.

"All right, you're not then," he smirks. "But, any time you're ready to turn around and shun your wicked lying ways, I'll be here to lend a listening ear."

His hand leaves its spot against the steering wheel, slithering its way over the top of my palm and entwining his fingers through mine. He gives them a tight squeeze which I reciprocate easily.

He has a point, though. This _is_ one of my rarer moments. The wall I've worked so hard to build up my entire life (although Gale seemed to find a way to catapult over it) is down in its entirety tonight.

Gale lurches the car to the left without warning, hurtling us further away from civilization and deeper onto the winding backroads of Capitol.

I loosen my hand from his grip and the hurt look that immediately encases his face turns to one of confusion and excitement as I lay it to rest on my thigh. Gale's hand has never rested _this far_ up my thigh and I watch his Adam's apple bob.

It's not that I don't trust Gale to touch my thigh... or further even. It's just that... I trust him more than I've trusted anyone else in the universe. And that's a lot of weight to rest on one person's shoulders. So we take things slow, because it seems like you only see careless mistakes coming from people who take things too fast.

Outside of my younger sister Prim and Dad, Gale is the only person I've ever trusted fully. But even that is completely different. You're born into family, right? And so you sort of _have _to trust them. You have no other option but to trust your parents to feed you and clothe you and love you when you're only a small infant or child.

You trust until trust is broken.

Gale was an outsider when I met him in seventh grade though. An older boy who had taken an odd interest in me and my life and who (for that reason) was absolutely _not_ to be trusted. But, he kept trying. He didn't seem to care that I wasn't interested in doing any kissing at the local theater or touching under the shorts during summer vacation like other giggling girls. I made _that _abundantly clear, but, it only seemed to make him like me more.

He stuck around. Through all my silent tests and mixed signals, Gale Hawthorne finally wore me down. And now... well, _now_ I'm trusting him to touch me in places _further _than my thigh.

I feel the pad of his thumb trail indistinguishable patterns along my jean-clad skin before he gives it a gentle squeeze and glances over me. Perhaps it's the way my own cheeks feel hot against my skin, but I swear I see a tint of color to his cheeks in the darkness.

There are no rules against touching like this, so _why do I feel so paranoid? _Gale's hand trails over mine once more before bringing it up to his lips to firmly kiss.

"I love you, Katniss," he reminds me, "You know that, right?"

I don't know why the word feels so taboo in my mouth, or why his hand on my thigh makes my heart beat fast for a thousand different reasons.

Of course I love him. He knows it just as well as I. There's no one else I'd rather spend my free time with, no one else I allow to kiss me the way he does. No one else I tell my secrets to.

But when I go to open my mouth, my tongue feels like a dry piece of sandpaper.

Gale, never being one to care for awkward silences, begins swiveling the steering wheel of the car, making it shake and jerk as he shouts out loudly.

"Gale!" I squeak, the euphoric feelings from too much alcohol consumption beginning to wilt and that familiar tightening in my chest begins to rise. I grip the side of the door, feeling the vibrations from the music on my palm. Its loud bass disturbs the peaceful night around us as Gale lowers his window.

"Quit it!"

He shoves me playfully, frowning just slightly.

"Awe, come on Kat, we're just having a little fun."

He shoves me again, forcing a smile past my lips and finds my hand with his own once more.

I'm not sure what the speed limit here is, but I'm positive we are several miles above it. Gale doesn't seem to be bothered, he's experiencing the same type of feelings most seniors do, the feeling of being invincible, uncontrollable, unstoppable.

And I let him, because after he graduates this June the feeling of invincibility will quickly melt away. When he's forced into becoming a man.

"_Catnip," _Gale emphasizes, smirking as he sees me cringe at the horrible excuse of a nickname he's acquired over the years for me. "A smile just won't do. Come on, live a little! Be bold!"

_Be bold._

I mull his words over. _Bold. _

I think about his hand, half resting in mine, half on my thigh. _Bold. _I think about the way his head is half out the window, screaming into the dead of night, like a typical idiotic teenage boy.

_Bold._

Without thinking, I snake my fingers more firmly around his, the inside of my palm resting against the back of his hand. Slowly, I move it up past my hip and over the curve of my stomach. The screams die on Gale's lips and for a second I see his eyes flash to me.

"What're you doing?" he asks, slightly slurred.

I don't answer. I'm afraid if I start talking about it, I'll lose my will and courage to do it completely. So instead, because he doesn't stop me, I move his hands further until the tips of his fingers brush the bottom swell of my breasts.

_I can be bold._

I hear a quiet intake of breath before I move to make his hand run over it completely. At first, his hand stiffens in its grasp, but slowly he moves to shape his fingers around it, giving a gentle squeeze.

I glance up at his face and his lips are slightly parted, his eyes fixated on his hand that rests on my chest. _This is new. This is exciting, but this is new._

"Katniss," he moans, and just a moment later, as my eyes flicker to the road I shout out: "DEER!"

Gale swerves without looking, sending us flying down the jagged and bumpy hill off to the right.

Looking back, I remember seeing tree limbs scrape along the busted windows as the car toppled down, rolling like a ball, unable to stop. But if you asked me only moments after the accident, I would have told you I saw only black.

Spinning, swirling _blackness._

The car stops, slamming into a tree larger than it with the wheels facing the sky and blood rushing to my head as I'm flipped upside down. The whole thing probably lasted fifteen seconds, but it might has well have been hours.

I stay still, body limp and afraid to move before finally testing my neck, only slightly craning it to the right to look out the window which no longer held any glass.

"Gale," I whisper, my voice shaking, and waiting for a response. When there is none, I turn my head shakily to the left.

He's not there.

"Gale?" I try louder, but the intensity of the moment has passed. The music is no longer blaring through the speakers. Gale no longer screams. It is completely silent around me.

I lift my hands, which shake uncontrollably and test them out by rolling my wrists and shoulders. Nothing hurts. But I can't tell yet if it's true or not.

_I need to find Gale,_ my mind screams as I try crying out for him louder. I wince at a shooting pain that spasms in my chest.

I realize with a second glance around that even though I might _want_ to move, I am completely trapped inside of the car. I have no choice but to sit here and wait for help, screaming in hopes that somewhere Gale can hear me.

I chant his name as loud as my lungs will allow.

Nothing.

I hear the sound of an ambulance in the distance. There are a few houses back here on this winded road, perhaps they heard and called for help.

"Help," I whimper, hopelessly, tears staining my vision. "Help! Gale! Help."

He doesn't respond in the way I'm hoping, telling me he's all right. That everything is going to be fine.

He doesn't respond in the way that I think he might either, by telling me he's not ok and needs help.

He just never responds.

* * *

I hope you all enjoyed the prologue. I plan to update weekly similar to the way I had with _With Eyes to Hear _but this story is not completed yet so it might not be the case. Chapter one will be up within a few days but after that look for updates on Sundays! Thanks for reading :)

I'm **finnickshardtrident** over on tumblr, come chit chat!


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins.**

A big thank you to my beta fnur for all her help with this chapter.

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

The sound of our car doors slamming three separate times seems too loud for the quiet street. It dead ends into a circle, not visible from our driveway.

The sky is a dreary shade of gray, and a cold and slushy snow-rain mixture has been drizzling from it throughout most of the day, not quite heavy enough to stick but miserable enough to spark Prim's most recent bad mood.

"_This is not moving-type weather," _she had said _at least_ four times in the twenty minutes it took us to get from Capitol to Panem. Whatever the hell that means.

Dad moves to open the latch to the small U-Haul we were able to hook up to the back of his car. It doesn't look like too much is inside of it, but besides what was stuffed in the trunk and backseat with Prim, it was everything we owned.

"All right," he says, _he sounds so tired_. "Start unloading."

We do. And he walks to the end of the short lawn to remove the sign that sticks down in the grass, advertising the right side of the white townhouse for sale.

Prim rolls her eyes, stuffs her hands inside of her pants' pockets and kicks a stone on her way to the back of the U-Haul. Dad tosses the sign at the end of the driveway, where everyone else's garbage cans sit ready to be picked up and then unlocks the front door.

Across the dead road, I make eye contact with a man, leaning his back against the screen door leading into his home and smoking a cigarette. He offers a nod when he catches me staring before taking a quick swig of whatever is hidden in that brown bag of his. My eyes flicker away immediately, and I feel an unwanted heat rising to my cheeks.

His hair is short and a similar looking gravel colored scruff covers his face. He looks greasy... like he might need a shower. I notice Prim glancing his way too, her nose scrunched in distaste and nudge her gently, shaking my head in a silent warning not to keep looking.

Panem might be just two towns over from where we grew up in Capitol, but things aren't the same here. The streets are dingier, the school has a reputation and the community as a whole is in a greater state of poverty.

Us Everdeen's will probably fit in _here_ better than we ever could have in Capitol. But, that's not what Dad needs to hear.

He never wanted this for either of us. He tried his hardest to keep us in our small - but _nice_ - home in Capitol. But when money runs out, it don't come out your butt. And there's been a lot of money running out around us Everdeens.

It all kind of started with me - _no_ - actually, it started with Azalea Everdeen, who biologically is my mother because she gave birth to me, but I don't think I can ever imagine her as anything other than Azalea.

It hadn't necessarily _surprised _me when she up and left us without a second thought. Azalea had always been a selfish woman.

She didn't care about Dad. Only his money, and when signs of that began dwindling, so did her presence. He doesn't like talking about it much, but we all know she was sleeping around long before she finally got the fuck out.

She didn't really particularly care for me either. I was what is so lovingly referred to as the "accident" baby. The result of a broken condom or a little pill that sat on the dresser when it should have been swallowed or whatever.

I know for a fact she wanted me aborted. It was _Dad_ who began saving my life since before he could even hear my heart beating.

Azalea actually _did_ care about Prim for a while, though. Even so, obviously not enough.

Sometimes, Prim likes to place blame on Dad and I for her disappearance. She gets in these bad, bad moods where words just start spewing from her mouth and she doesn't regret it until hours after she's calmed down.

I used to just let her rant, but that only seemed to give her a bigger head and a meaner vocabulary. So about four weeks ago, when she was on one of her _Mom wouldn't have left if it weren't for yooooooou! _tangents, I calmly informed her that if Azalea had wanted her so badly, she wouldn't still be here.

That shut her up pretty damn fast.

I felt kind of bad after though, because Prim hardly ever shuts up, so I knew it must have really gotten to her, what I said. I try not to be so harsh with her, because it's not really her fault she's such a bitch most of the time.

Prim has a lot going on in that little brain of hers. It's been an issue for so long I don't even remember a time she was truly happy, really. I see pictures of her beaming toddler face and videos and stuff but it's like its another person using her body as their puppet. She hasn't smiled that wide in ages.

When Prim was in grade school, she was sort of... well, she was fat. _Chunky_ now that I look back on it, but to the kids at the time she might as well been a whale. They told her just as much.

_Whale. School bus. Elephant. _Anything big, they called her.

I tried defending her once, but it only made her angry, or embarrassed or a mix of the two. She told me to shut up and she could win her own battles, and then locked herself in her bedroom to eat and cry.

When she turned twelve, she went from one extreme to another. I caught her vomiting up dinner one night in the bathroom, the water from the sink running to cover over the sound of her gagging. She told me she had the stomach bug, and then got a little sneakier.

She began purging around two or three in the morning, downstairs while everyone was asleep. She purged and she starved herself and ran and ran and ran around town, not giving a damn who saw.

The girl was a rail now. And I find it _sick _that a girl who starves herself is only now accepted as beautiful.

She takes a shit ton of pills each morning. A white capsule to make the pain and anguish she feels turn to numbness, a blue one to help soothe the voices she hears in her mind, and a horse-like pill to help decrease her acute mood swings.

The mood swings especially prove problematic for Dad who tries his best to understand but just doesn't. He doesn't get how one minute she can be laughing and the next everyone is yelling. It infuriates him that he doesn't understand and he usually just ends up yelling back.

I _hate_ yelling.

Most of our stuff is packed up in different bags and duffles, but there are a couple of bigger boxes toward the back of the U-Haul. So once Dad, Prim and I have moved the furniture into the house, I grab the boxes and lug them in, dropping them in the center of the space allotted for a living room before turning around to grab another one.

Prim has started unpacking some of the more important belongings, and with only a couple boxes left, I tell Dad that I can handle it. I just need... a _minute. _One minute alone.

He understands, locks the car up and jogs inside, calling to Prim through the open screen door.

The man across the street made his way inside too.

I jump into the back of the U-Haul, rubbing my numb fingers together before grabbing one of the three boxes stacked in the corner and pulling it into my chest.

A chilly wind stings my cheeks as I walk out from under its protection and for a long minute, I have to shut my eyes from the pressure. I look down, so I can tell where my feet lead me and also to keep my face from taking the brunt of the wind.

When I see the porch just a few steps ahead of me, I place the box down and breathe in and out deeply, embarrassed at how out of shape I felt. My arms were tingling and my head was spinning. Dad would tell me to take it easy, that I still wasn't one-hundred percent better since the accident-

I usually just glare at him. A silent indicator that things could have been a lot worse on my end. _I could be dead._

I can't think about it long because then my throat gets tight and my eyes start to sting and it feels like there's a golf ball in my chest so I blink rapidly, shake my head from the thought and press my hands against the low curve of my back, bending until it cracks satisfyingly.

_It's not so bad here. _I think to myself. _Quieter. And we never had many trees in our yard back in Capitol. _

The cookie cutter neighborhood was stripped of its trees besides one small one off-center to the right of everyone's house. Nothing you could climb on without the limbs snapping, really just a garnish.

Just a few yards behind this new townhouse there was a whole forest of trees, so tall I have to crane my neck to see the top from where I stand at the driveway. There's several on the street, tall like the ones in the back but singular. Easy to climb with thick branches, sturdy enough to get lost in.

Prim wasn't so excited about switching schools. Over the past couple of years (like most teenage girls) Prim had inched her way in with a group of close-knit girls (who would never talk again after senior year, guaranteed), joined a few clubs (which would mean nothing to her after graduation) and become rather comfortable over at Capitol.

Me on the other hand... I had nothing to loose by the switch. Before the accident, Gale was my only real friend. There were a couple others I'd hang out with, but even then we were only really friends by association through Gale.

After the accident, when I was well enough to get back to class, I had never felt so alone walking the hallways without his protection.

Everywhere I turned there were pain-filled stares, or pouting lips in sympathy. I had girls flinging themselves at me, sobbing about how sorry they were for my loss and how much they too had _loved_ Gale.

I couldn't remember them ever talking to him before.

It was like a constant gray cloud was looming over my head, drenching me with self pity and loathing.

And everyone noticed.

So, moving here wasn't too bad of an arrangement on my end. It was actually _nice_ getting away from Capitol. Knowing, if I really didn't want to, I'd never have to go again.

I brush the layer of slush build-up from my hair and lift the box into my chest once more, having worked up the energy to bring it inside finally. Dad sees me through the glass door, struggling to find the handle and comes rushing over to help me in.

"You sure you don't need-"

"I'm fine," I assure him. "Here, take this. Only a couple left."

He does silently, and turns in the direction of the living room right as I hear Prim shout out about finding something she hadn't seen in months.

There's one step in-between the porch and the paved path leading up to the porch, and my right foot has barely touched the step when the screen door to my left swings open with great force. The door slams shut in an instant, shaking the whole frame of the house, and before the boy's hand leaves the knob, his eyes train on me for a split second.

I'm stunned still, watching him with one arm wrapped around the pillar that holds up the overhang above the porch. I can see the deep-blue shade of his irises even with the distance between us, and slowly his scowling eyebrows turn up into almost a look of confusion.

I blink, turning my head away and just a moment later he's jogging down the path leading to his side of the house and jumping into the driver's seat of an old looking pick-up truck. I hear his engine starting up as I walk briskly down to the U-Haul once more, and then he's speeding down the street, much faster than he ought to be going.

* * *

"This isn't going to work."

That's the fifth time Prim has informed me that sharing a bedroom is absolutely, positively _not_ going to work out. I've stopped responding and simply let out a puff of air in response, leaning against the framing of the door.

"I know the house isn't what we're used to," Dad begins, a nervousness lacing the edge of his voice. "But, we'll have to make due for now. It's big enough to get both of you girls beds inside-"

"What the _fuck," _Prim bellows, turning his direction with downcast eyebrows and a slack jaw. She pushes a piece of stray hair behind her ear before both her bony hands land on either side of her bony hips.

Before Dad can stop her, she's delved into one of her tangents, and we make eye contact, silently willing one another not to laugh.

Dad and I are sort of like a team. It's an unspoken joke that we were the two normal ones in the family and Azalea and Prim were the crazies. At least Prim has an excuse though.

Either way, the older she gets, the more she fucking resembles her, and it's enough to make my skin crawl sometimes. She'll utter her _phrases, _and grit her teeth the same way. I've told her a couple times that if she didn't knock it off, she'd end up just like Azalea, but that just makes her more angry and then she starts punching.

It's not that I can't fight off my little sister, because I totally can, I'm a good couple inches taller than her and have a much steadier frame (thank you, food) but it's more that I never pity her more than when I see her so helpless, so tongue-tied and frustrated that she's left with no other choice but to hit and scream at the top of her lungs and cry.

And I _hate _pitying her almost as much as I hate yelling.

Because who wants to be pitied anyway? It sucks.

So anyway, she's going on and on, her voice growing louder as she continues to list point after point (and repeat some of the same points I've noticed) before I finally raise a hand and have to practically shout over the top of her that I don't mind taking the couch.

Her ranting stops in its tracks and she quirks an eyebrow at me.

"Well, I never said I wanted _that."_

"But you're right about one thing, sharing a room is out," I say calmly, and Dad expression looks pained, as if he's silently telling me he's sorry.

He's sorry, _sorry, sorry._

"Don't put words in my mouth, Katniss," Prim hisses and my head falls back as I release a quiet groan.

"Do you want the room or not?"

"Don't put this all on-"

"Prim!"

"Ugh!" she squeals, pulling at the roots of her hair before stomping into the bedroom. "You always make me feel like shit, Katniss, you know that? You always have to act so _damn noble._ Like I'm just one big fuck-up!"

It used to embarrass me when Gale would see her like this. Losing her shit over something as simple as a sleeping arrangement. But right now, Prim is over-tired and so she's extra sensitive. Also, I'd be willing to bet she missed a dosage of her medication due to all the excitement of moving today.

She's very forgetful, my little sister, and without a friendly reminder or push she would forget her pills everyday. Which would make her life a living hell.

And everyone else's for that matter.

It's hard, because from a sisterly perspective, I cannot stand it when I see people roll their eyes or make comments about Prim's unruly behavior.

_She can't help it! _I want to snap at them. But, I know they are outsiders. They know nothing about my younger sister. And it's not as if she wears obvious signs of illness.

Her worst scars are internal.

But people don't view people with mental illnesses as _brave_ or _strong. _Their battle is not one to be proud of, but rather one to be ashamed of.

_Snap out of it! _I've heard people tell Prim when she's too depressed to eat or sleep or anything.

_What the hell is wrong with her?_

Prim _is_ strong. She's not weak because every single day she wakes up and starts her fight over again. It will never end. She won't ever get better. Medicine helps, just as it does with any disease, but really it just numbs her reality of what pain and hurt is like. And sometimes, even the numbness drives her mad.

So I have to be patient with her, because if I'm not then who will be? It's hard. It's taxing and there are days when I just _sob..._

But, I love her. She's my sister. And deep down, I know she _cannot help it._

"Katniss," Dad whispers, quiet enough to be out of Prim's earshot - she's only talking to herself now. "I can take the couch."

"No," I say firmly. Because God himself knows if there's one person in this family who needs a space to call their own, it's Dad.

Then Prim.

Then me.

"I'm fine," I assure him. "It's just a place to sleep."

It was beginning to feel stupid, how long this couch talk was going on for. The longer I stood there making excuses, the longer Dad looked like a wounded puppy. So I walked back down the short staircase while silence overtook the upstairs portion of the house.

* * *

In the end, no one ends up on the couch.

Upon further inspection of the townhouse, I find a small room in the basement I assume was once used for laundry. Sometime before we moved in, the washer and dryer had been moved to the top floor, leaving this newly discovered room vacant.

I note that the door had been removed, running my fingers over its bare hinges, but it's not the worst problem the room could have, and totally fixable over time.

There's no real reason for Prim or Dad to come down here anyway.

The basement is wide and spacious, but that's about where the appeal begins and ends. Circulation must not be as good down here, because it's several degrees cooler than it had been upstairs and my bare toes turn pink against the old gray carpet.

There's a distinct smell down here I hadn't noticed above... almost _musty. _Not quite moldy, but just the way you'd stereotypically expect a grandparent's house to smell or something. I imagine it's the kind of scent you _get used to._

I replace the blown light bulb from the room I now claim as my own and a couple outside its thin walls, significantly brightening the entire space. There's also a small window in the far corner up toward the ceiling of the basement - where the walls are no longer covered by the dirt of underground.

It's nice during the day, allowing the extra little bit of natural light to shine in, but I suspect when the sky begins to darken, it'll only become an object of paranoia that someone could possibly be watching...

Several disturbing mental images flood my mind and I physically cringe.

_I'll find a curtain or something._

* * *

As it turns out, sheets make awesome doors (and curtains for questionable windows).

I wipe a bead of sweat from the center of my forehead as I pull the last tack from its position clamped between my teeth and pin it into the wood above the door frame, successfully finishing the "decorating" of my new room.

"It looks nice," Prim comments, jumping off the chair she needed to reach the top of the door frame from the other side.

"Thanks," I smirk, pulling back the curtain to wink at her. Her eyes are bloodshot and although she attempts a smile it falls flat.

"You sure you're okay down here? It's like a cave," she says, wrinkling her nose. "You're so... secluded."

I can tell by the way her eyes shift and voice quivers just slightly it freaks her out down here. Prim wouldn't make it twenty minutes before she came running up the stairs to the main level. I never understood what was so creepy about basements. It's just another room. I guess because in horror movies, that's where they always hide the dead bodies and stuff like that.

But this basement was wide open. Nowhere to hide, alive or dead. And, now that I was used to the chill in the air and debatable smell, it was actually quite cozy.

With Dad's help, I got my mattress down the steep steps and laid it in the right corner of the new room, after I dusted the cobwebs away. I don't really have much other furniture, and what I do have is still packed away in boxes that lay in our soon-to-be living room.

"I like it down here," I answer Prim with a shrug, tugging a pair of wooly socks over my feet.

"You're weird," she sniffs. "I'm going to bed. Night, Katniss."

"Goodnight, Prim," I mumble, watching as she disappears up the wooden steps.

I lay in bed awake for a long time. With the lights out, the room grows pitch black causing pink and yellow spots to dance in the corners of my eyes until they adjust.

There's a loud creaking noise that makes me jump a little before I realize it's just the heat turning on. A couple minutes later, I hear a toilet flush two floors up and the sound of rushing water filling the pipes down here circulates around me.

Feet creek with each step on the levels above me.

It's like my own nighttime lullaby. And in some weird, twisted and comforting way, it lulls me to sleep.

* * *

Thank you for the wonderful response to the prologue, you all always make posting new stories an exciting experience. Quick note: some of you **thought this was the sequel to _With Eyes to Hear_**and that is not the case. _Amidst_ is a stand alone piece completely unrelated to any of my other stories. WETH's sequel (_Eyes Wide Open) _is still in the process of being written and will be posted once it's complete. I hope this clears up any lingering confusion!

Thank you for reading! Find me on tumblr: finnickshardtrident and twitter: passtheheroin


	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins.**

A big thank you to my beta fnur for all her help with this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Two

* * *

Sitting around a half unpacked home gets pretty damn boring after about a day or so of it.

Although we moved out of Capitol, Dad still works in the mines there and his typical morning commute of five minutes has been bumped up to twenty as a result. As I watched him rush out the door this morning, not even grabbing the coffee he poured, I could tell he was not yet in the swing of things.

When I brought up possibly leaving the house early this afternoon, Prim seemed to have no interest. She keeps herself company rather well cooped up in her bedroom. Mostly, her days off of school consist of listening to music (loudly) and writing in her journal. I've asked her on a couple different occasions what it is she writes about in that thing but she never gives me a straight answer. Just _"poetry" _her voice raising a pitch higher than normal.

She keeps it with her, always.

It's a particularly nice day outside for early March. The sun is out and the clouds are few and far between. Temperatures still drift toward the chillier end but there's a distinct smell of spring that laces the breeze. I know Spring is supposed to be a "new beginning" and all that other shit people say, but really it only ends up reminding me of Gale. It was early May when we took our last drive together, and the closer we draw to the warmer months, the tighter the ball in my chest grows.

So, I'm happy to feel my cheeks sting with the cool air as I step outside. Prim changed her mind sometime in the past hour of my original pitch to leaving the house and decides to come with me, slipping a hat over her head of loose curls and buttoning up her jacket.

We don't talk for a long time, just stroll up the street leading to a main drag of road and follow the path into the town not too far away.

By seventeen, most people have cars, or so it seems. But due to our lack of income, a car isn't an option for me right now. I had a fund started when I was fourteen, figuring if I tried hard over the next couple years I'd have enough for a down payment on at least a crummy one.

But, I offered every last penny over to Dad after things got bad last spring with Azalea. I guess it was a time for "change" and new beginnings, because that's when she decidedly took Dad to the cleaners and left our asses.

"You know what I've been thinking?" Prim wonders aloud, scuffing her feet along the walkway, kicking stones beneath her feet.

"What have you been thinking?"

"I've been thinking, if Dad can drive _all the way _back to Capitol each morning for work, how come he can't just drop me off at school on the way? It'd be easy enough."

"You want to sit around the school by yourself in the cold at five in the morning?" I snort. "Because you realize that's when Dad starts work. Five am."

"I wouldn't mind it," she shrugs stubbornly. "Not if it meant staying at Capitol."

"What is so wrong with a fresh start, Prim?"

Her body tightens off to the side of me and she begins shaking her head furiously, her teeth gritting inside her clenched jaw.

"I hate new. I hate it. I _**can't stand**_ new. I like routine."

"Well, maybe if you just gave it a try-"

"-I _hate_ new," she reiterates. "I know this is all rainbows and butterflies for you, but _I _wasn't runnin' from anything in Capitol. I don't need a fresh start."

"I wasn't running either," I speak softly. "This is just where we found a place to stay."

"You were running, Katniss," she sighs. "You couldn't wait to get out of that place because all you ever thought about was G-...well, you know."

"Gale," I finish for her, and the word stings more than I thought it would on my lips. "You can say his name, it's not forbidden."

"Gale then. You wanted to get away from Gale and everything that reminded you of him. Panem is definitely that."

"I'm not trying to get away from Gale," I frown.

Of course at first, I distanced myself from everything having to do with him, because just _thinking_ his name or of his sweet smile caused this stabbing pain to shoot throughout my entire body like a knife, unforgivably jabbing me over and over...

But that is a natural part of dealing with death. Distancing one's self. Or so I'm told. It didn't feel very natural to me.

Over the next couple of months though, as the shock began to fade and all the funeral speeches were made and people stopped staring at me like I was a wounded puppy, it was almost like they were _forgetting._

Then that jabbing pain started to dull, and in its place, a different and much worse kind of pain. A never-ending hollowness.

And with the revelation that the world was forgetting Gale, moving on without him...

I tried desperately to cling harder.

* * *

Prim and I walk until we reach a strip of shops known as the "Heart of Panem." It's a town within the town, apparently it's the "original Panem" and everything else has been built off of it. There are only two traffic lights from one end of town to the other and all the businesses look dead for a Saturday afternoon.

Personally, I think the entire reason they keep this place around is for historical aspect. If it wasn't so old (or the town wasn't so falsely prideful) there'd be a _Wal-Mart _on one corner and a gas station on the next.

Prim agrees when I voice my opinion, and for the first time since we moved here, compliments Panem.

"I like all these little shops," she says, absently. I glance over at her, my eyebrows lifting in surprise but she only pushes back a stray curl, her fingers lingering for a moment before turning to me. "What? It's kind of cute."

"Kind of," I shrug, opening the door to a library without ever asking if Prim minded going inside. If she wanted to browse other shops in the town she had a cell phone. But she sticks close to my side, following me through the door.

The atmosphere stills and the only noise that surrounds us is that of our feet moving against the old carpeting. With the artificial lighting, it's significantly darker inside and takes a couple seconds for my eyes to adjust accordingly.

"'Bout time you bitches showed-" A figure pops up from behind the counter, startling both Prim and I. Her expression holds a teasing smile that lasts only a second before dropping to a confused-looking frown and then switches to a more guarded, but welcoming, smile.

Her long reddish brown hair is tucked back into a fishtail braid that holds my eyes' focus, because it looks really cool. I've always wanted to learn how to do that with my own hair, but no matter how many tutorials I watch, I usually end up frustratedly brushing out knotted chunks of hair.

"Sorry," she explains, pushing a book under the scanner and waiting for the _beep! _before placing it on a cart behind her. "I was expecting someone else."

Prim snorts behind me, shuffling her way over to the young adult section silently and I offer the girl a shrug before disappearing in the opposite direction. She doesn't say another word, just goes back to scanning her books.

I hadn't realized the library is completely empty besides Prim and I. I find it a little surprising that not even children can be found spending their day off picking out books. It used to be Prim's and my favorite thing to do growing up. But, I guess times have changed.

And now I feel old.

After a couple minutes of mindless browsing, the door swings open again and two rather rambunctious boys waltz through. The girls face brightens like it had the first time she met Prim and my eyes, only this time it stays and she waves them over to her. This must have been who she expected.

I can't see either of the boy's faces, but the shorter one with deep bronze hair jumps on top of the counter and leans down to meet the girl's lips. He ruffles the top of her hair and instead of squealing like a typical girl, her smirk deepens and she sticks her tongue out as he leaps off onto the ground again.

"Annie, aren't you bored as fuck here?" the boy who hadn't just kissed her asks. I pretend to be looking intently at the bookshelf in front of me, but my eyes narrow to make out the face of the tall blonde boy off to my side.

Not because I think he's cute or anything. Just familiar. And I can't pinpoint why.

"Yeah, ditch this place, come get something to eat with us!" the other boy chants out and the girl - Annie, he had called her - presses a stiff finger to her lips.

"Shut up! There are people trying to read in here," she hisses. I think she _thinks_ she's being quiet, but I hear every word from her mouth just as clearly as the boys.

Their heads begin twisting in all different directions - trying to locate the bodies - and I grab the first book I touch and flip it open to the middle, pushing my face down inside and scanning the page although the words make no sense.

After a few seconds, when I chance a glance up through the top of the book, his piercing blue eyes are trained on me. My eyes flicker down quickly and when I look back up he's averted his gaze forward. The girl - Annie - is talking again.

I remember him now. He's the boy who came rushing out from the other side of our townhouse a few days ago. He looked so angry that it seems odd seeing a carefree smile painting his lips now.

The three of them look to be about my age, but I've always been bad at guessing games so I don't entertain the thought long.

I feel a misplaced surge of jealousy shoot through me as their cackles fill the otherwise dead library. It's a silly emotion to feel, because I don't know any of them at all, but I remember a time when I used to laugh and tease with my best friend...

I weave my way further from the commotion at the front desk and deeper into aisles and aisles of books. It's easy to get lost in here, I think, but that's exactly what I had wanted. I slink to the ground and pull on a book with an unfamiliar title from the very lowest shelf.

It smells like a book, which oddly enough is one of my favorite parts about reading. The feel of the pages in between my fingers, the small smudges of ink from the printer and the glorious musky smell of a book that has spent its entire life sitting on a shelf waiting to be picked.

No one takes books from the bottom shelf.

The book in my hand is entitled: _The Limitless Dream._

Without looking at the summary, I flip through the first several pages of introduction until the large printed: **CHAPTER ONE **catches my eye.

Part of the fun in reading, I've learned, is not knowing where the story is heading. Figuring it out along the way. But summaries usually give away too much. Make the plot guessable, and in turn, uninteresting.

So, when I was thirteen I made this pact with myself to never read a summary again, to just start _reading _and hold off judgment until the end of the tale.

I can count on one hand how many times I've been disappointed.

Prim thinks it's stupid.

"_Why waste your time on something you hate when you could be reading something that interests you?" _she had argued.

I reminded her that I never questioned her book-selecting technique, and shortly after she discontinued questioning mine.

Prim finds me (and lets out a rather exasperated breath of air) when I'm nearly finished with Chapter Three of _The Limitless Dream. _

"Why are you hiding?" she demands, her arms folded over two or three of her own books.

I lift myself onto my feet, folding the corner of my page down to which she narrows her eyes (that drives her mad; half the fun in doing it).

"Not hiding," I insist. "Just got caught up. Ready, Freddy?"

"Been ready. You're only getting one?"

"Only need one until I'm finished," I shrug. "I'll get something new when I come to return it."

When we get up to the front desk, Annie stands by herself again. Apparently, her friends had grown bored of waiting around the silent library for her to finish her shift.

"All set?" she questions, taking Prim's books before she can answer. She scans the first one before glancing back up with narrowed eyes.

"Y'all are new around here, aren't you?"

"Kind of," I answer, because Prim just lets out a short nod. We've passed by Panem plenty of times. Just never lived in it. "Moved here from Capitol a couple days ago."

Annie lets out a low whistle, reaching out for my book. She eyes it, flipping it over a couple times before scanning it and placing a small card inside.

"Explains why I haven't seen you around. Town this small, everyone basically knows everyone. So prepare yourselves to be asked who you are about a hundred more times."

"Will do."

"I'm Annie, by the way."

"Prim," Prim answers and then they both turn to me expectantly.

"Oh, I'm uh... Katniss."

"That's a mouthful," Annie snickers. "I'll call you Kat."

I don't usually prefer nicknames - especially _Kat _- but, I can't find it in me to correct her either.

"Any chance either of you girls are looking for a job? As you can see, we're desperate for a couple other people," she snorts at her own joke and then leans up against the countertop. "Mostly on the weekends and late afternoons it's just me here. No one wants to work at the library that no one wants to come to."

Her offer is actually appealing. I've been thinking about getting something part-time to help Dad out financially. And, all right, it's a little bit of a selfish motive as well because it'd be really nice to have an excuse to be out of the house a couple days a week.

"You seem like book gurus," she continues when neither of us answer, though her eyes are trained on me. "Reading things I've never even heard of."

It couldn't possibly be boring here either. If there was no one in need of help (which seemed to be a lot of the time) I could just read, which is what I'd do at home anyway. So why not get paid?

"Uh, sure. I wouldn't mind filling out an application."

Annie snorts again. I'm beginning to think she can't actually laugh.

"There aren't any applications for_ the library_. When can you start? Are you free afternoons and weekends?"

"Free anytime... except for school hours-"

"-Naturally," Annie smirks.

"Right."

"All right, so you're hired."

"And... you have the authority to do this?" I ask, my eyebrows slanting downward in disbelief. She looks too young to manage and run a library on her own. And judging by her earlier interaction, she doesn't exactly hang around with the most responsible people.

Or maybe I'm just being a judgmental bitch. I can't tell.

"Well, technically, no, not really," she shrugs. "But, Haymitch is never here anyway. He doesn't care what goes on."

"Hay... mitch?" I ask, slowly.

"Yeah, he like, owns _The Heart of Panem. _Used to be a lot cuter, before his Dad died and left him in charge. He's an old drunk who could honestly give two shits about this town. Especially the library."

That would explain the dingy carpeting and poor lighting. I purse my lips. Prim's patience is wearing thin and she switches her weight from foot to foot, sighing lowly.

"He hired me a few years back to keep things 'in shape.' It's not a bad gig, I get paid to sit around and sort books. But, as you can imagine it gets rather lonely. So, a new employee is definitely on the market."

"Well, if he wouldn't mind..."

"He won't. Start Wednesday afternoon?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure."

"Sweet deal."

* * *

Back in Capitol, Dad didn't typically get home until nearly seven o'clock. Now in Panem, it's closer to eight.

There isn't much food in the pantry, but I remember finding a box of pasta in the closet yesterday and pick up a cheap can of sauce from this small store on the outskirts of _The Heart of Panem _on the way home from the library.

It's not the best dinner in history, but it's one no one will complain about. With three different sets of strong taste buds, I've learned over the years that typically someone is unhappy with the meal before them.

Pasta is one of our few mutual favorites. Even if it tastes a little nasty and is topped with cheap sauce.

Dad wipes his face with a napkin and balls it up on his empty plate, sitting back a little. His t-shirt is sweat-stained and there are deep bags under his eyeballs from lack of sleep. He yawns, as if furthering my point and smacks his leg before standing up with a short grunt.

"Thanks for the food, Katniss," he says, collecting our plates. "Nice of you to make dinner."

"It's not a problem."

I still haven't told Dad about my new job. I'm afraid if he knows too many details he'll catch onto my plans of what to do with the money, and force me into quitting. Dad (like most men) has a pride issue. He _wants _to provide for his girls.

Just like he _wanted_ to make his wife happy.

And _wanted_ to keep the house back in Capitol.

He would never ask me for help. I think, secretly, it bothers him that I even have dinner ready most nights. So I figure, if I can somehow trick him into taking the money, or simply corner him one day, he'll have no other option but to accept.

Over dinner, I almost cave and mention the library during several moments of awkward pause. But in the end, I stab my fork harder into the little pasta pieces and cram them into my mouth.

"Prim? Do you mind helping clean up these dishes?" Dad asks, cracking his back.

Prim lifts her head from where it rests in her flat palm and her eyebrows tilt down slightly.

"Um... I guess?"

"Okay," Dad chuckles nervously. "Katniss made dinner, you can help me clean it up."

Prim rolls her eyes, "Well, _I_ could have made dinner. If I had known _this_ was the alternative..."

"But you didn't," Dads tone holds a bit of an edge to it and I feel my muscles tightening as they continue building off one another. The air grows tense around us and the room is so silent I can hear the leaky faucet dripping in the kitchen. This is the calm before the storm, which means tonight will not end on the positive note I'd hoped it would.

"But I'm just saying, _if I had."_

"Well, should have, would have, could have, but in the end you didn't. Katniss did. So now you're going to help out with the dishes."

"I'm _coming," _Prim snaps, pushing her chair back roughly against the carpet and smacking her porcelain plate on top of mine. "Damnit, I never said I wouldn't do them! Get off my fucking back!"

"Prim..." I begin with an exasperated sigh, but it's too late. They've already launched into battle.

"Shut up," she says, jabbing a finger in my direction before throwing the dishes into the sink and smacking the water onto high.

"I never said I wouldn't hel-" Dad begins.

"I don't need your help!" she snaps, not bothering to even look at him. "Get away from me."

"Damnit, Prim!" Dad snaps. "I asked for one thing! One little thing for you to contribute to this family. All you ever do is sit around doing God knows what. I work all day, Katniss made dinner now I don't think its much to ask that you clean a couple of plates up! You're not a child anymor-"

"Oh yeah, I just sit around and do nothing. That's all I ever do, _just sit around and do nothing_..." she yells over the top of him, and then continues to repeat herself over and over her voice growing louder anytime he tries opening his mouth.

"Prim..." I try more sternly, but my voice is only lost in the muddle.

Things only go two speeds in my family: fast and faster. Prim can go from zero to sixty miles an hour in less than a minute. She turns the smallest sentences into some of our biggest fights.

She has a gift for picking someone's words apart, scattering them around and rearranging to fit her needs. That right there is half her trouble. The other half is that she convinces herself that she believes it.

Their fight escalates quickly to the part where Prim drops to her knees, wraps her arms around her middle and lets out a blood-curdling cry as loud as she possibly can. She does this when she shuts down. When she has had enough.

Part of me feels sorry for her. _She can't help it, _my mind urges me to remember. But a darker part, a deeper source within me begs to differ.

It fights that she _can_ help it and does this for attention. That she's fifteen fucking years old and is expected to use her words for communication just like the rest of us.

The crueler deeper source is still sounding throughout my mind when I tug the front door open and fly through it. The fresh air smacks me in the face (the first part of my skin visible to the wind) suddenly, and I sink down until my butt hits the concrete of the porch below me.

I can still hear them from outside - though the words are muffled, it's easy to tell they are fighting. _Fantastic._

My head falls into my open palms; a blur of color whizzing by my open eyes before darkness encases them and I sigh loudly.

I think it was a book that once told me when things get too hard to handle, you'll adjust so that you can take them. When a bad thing happens enough, over and over, eventually you just grow used to it.

That's complete bullshit. Prim's been fucked since as long as I can remember. Azalea's been fucking everyone over for as long as I can remember. Dad's been trying to fucking mend things and I...

_I am not fucking adjusting. _

None of us are.

I sigh loudly, shaking my head, only jumping into an upright position when a deep voice off to my left clears its throat. My head snaps up in the voice's direction and immediately I feel my cheeks flame.

To my left, sitting on the porch in a position almost mirroring my own, is the boy. Like, _the boy. _Still nameless. Still with those piercing blue eyes.

He smirks at me when I don't immediately look away, and offers an awkward half wave.

I don't respond.

He clears his throat again.

I realize I'm still staring.

Blinking, I turn to face forward again, studying the dead branches of the tree in our front yard. I can still feel him _looking_ at me and my body grows tense under his watchful gaze, but I refuse to meet it.

"You were at the library today, weren't you?" he asks, his voice deep like I remember from earlier. He clears his throat again after offering up the first form of conversation.

I don't immediately respond, because in case he hadn't been able to tell I'm a little bit _busy_ being pissed off at my family right now. But, I still feel those eyes burning my skin and he keeps clearing his throat so finally I offer a short nod.

"You aren't stalking me, right?"

If he's looking for my attention, he has it now. My head snaps up in his direction, eyes wide and bewildered and mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"If I remember correctly, _I_ was there _first."_

"So you _can_ talk," he smirks.

I frown.

"I'm Peeta," he chuckles.

"Katniss," I grumble and he nods his head, repeating the word on his own lips, testing it out.

"So, do you typically sit outside in twenty degree weather, Katniss?"

"Do you?"

He chuckles again, "Well, I suppose sometimes I do. But if I remember correctly, _I_ asked you _first." _

My eyes narrow and my mouth is half open when I hear another loud hiss from inside the house.

_Great._ It's one thing for me to have to listen to one of Prim's blowups... but to sit here with a talkative stranger who knows nothing about anything dealing with my life hearing the whole thing is almost too much to take.

"Could you... hear... that entire thing?" I ask, instead of answering his question.

He offers a slightly sheepish nod before, "A better question is: who couldn't?"

_Greeeeeat._

I stand up, my cheeks stinging for reasons other than the chill, and dust any dirt off the back of my pants before heading for the door.

"I should go back in."

"Yeah, me too," he sighs, but doesn't stand to make a move for his door. I watch the back of his head for a moment, perplexed before placing my hand on the doorknob.

"And just in case you _do_ like sitting outside in twenty degree weather," he speaks, making me jump just slightly. I turn back to him and he's smirking up at me. "I'm usually around."

My lips purse, and without another word I push myself inside the house and shut the door tightly behind me.

* * *

I'm nearing chapter seven of _The Limitless Dream _when I feel my mind start to wander to thoughts of how it ended up on the bottom shelf.

Before I began reading, I checked the publication date in the front. _1973. _

There's a dedication page one flip over, with the author's face in black and white wearing a plastered smile. She died four years ago.

_She was old, _I remind myself, because looking at her picture, knowing she no longer exists starts to make me a little panicky. _She lived a full life. _

Unlike Gale, whose life was robbed from him prematurely.

_She died fulfilled, _I tell myself over again, although I have no way of knowing. Maybe she died feeling completely _unfulfilled. _Maybe, she was glad to go... to leave behind the pain and agony of this world...

_She died fulfilled, _I repeat for emphasis.

Her book actually isn't that bad. Definitely not bottom shelf material, though I can understand why it never became a classic either. The main character, Ruth, reminds me a lot of Prim, because her behavior is slightly erratic...

It's not until chapter three you find out the entire book thus far has been one large composition of her dreams. The pieces begin fitting together when "mysterious voices" begin talking to her, trying to coax her out of the deep sleep she's fallen into. She gets close a couple times, so close she realizes these "mysterious voices" are actually those of her parents, and she's trying to make it to them...

But the sea she's stranded in grows longer, or the air becomes denser. Some sort of blockade always appears, pulling her further into her dreamland and away from reality.

It sounds like a fucking disaster, and as I read on I actually feel a cool sweat along my neck a couple of times. I swear to God if she doesn't make it out by the end of the book I will burn these pages up without a second thought...

"Katniss?" Prims voice is soft from where she stands on the level above me, and before I have time to respond she's rushing down the stairs and pushing my half cracked door fully open.

"What?" I ask, setting my book down on the carpeted floor to my right just as Prim bounces on top of the mattress.

"I came down here to apologize," she speaks quietly, twisting her hands in the blanket under her, refusing to meet my gaze.

"Then do it."

"I'm sorry," she sighs, as if it's the hardest thing she's ever had to do. She still won't glance at me, but I know it's the best I'm going to get from her.

It's partly my fault my fifteen year old sister still acts five. Everyone had a part, really: Dad, Azalea, Me, Prim... well, not really Prim. More her brain. She can't help it her brain fucked her over.

The problem is, we never corrected it. We first started noticing Prim was _different_ when she was about six years old. While other kids her age were slowly growing out of their temper tantrum phase, Prim's only seemed to escalate.

She'd do just as she did a few hours ago: scream at the top of her lungs and fall to the ground when she had finally had enough.

None of us stopped her. No one told her_ that's enough_! or _knock it off! _or _act your age! _We just let her. Because things were (are) easier that way. She screams, she cries, she pitches a fit and then she runs to her room. A couple hours later, she'll return with her tail tucked between her legs, looking to apologize.

I know it's not really my place to chastise or discipline my younger sister, but as we grew older, I became more of a parent figure to Prim than Azalea could ever be.

Dad is a lot like me. He doesn't enjoy confrontation, but when he and Prim get going, it's as if a bomb has gone off and there is nothing left to do but watch it destroy everything.

And then I pick up the pieces.

"It's all right," I tell her, pushing back a piece of her hair, even though it really isn't. "You just need to learn to breathe, Prim."

"I _know,_" she tells me with a defeated huff. "You don't think I mean to act this way, right? It just happens. I don't realize it until it's already too late and then I just get frustrated-"

"I know," I tell her. My eyes feel heavy with much needed sleep and I sort of droop against the wall to my left for support. "It's all right. Just... something to work on, okay?"

She nods, lingering longer than usual.

"I'm heading to bed," I hedge, pursing my lips to the side when she doesn't automatically move.

She nods her head and slowly lifts herself up onto her feet.

"You should too."

I didn't realize it was so late and suddenly wasn't so confused as to why I had been yawning for the past half an hour.

"Yeah. I'm going," she murmurs before turning back to wave goodnight. "See you in the morning."

"In the morning," I whisper back, flicking off the light and turning into my pillow with a deep breath.

When I was younger, if things would get really bad around the house, I would hide under my blankets and try to fall asleep. As it turned out, dreaming was a kind get away from reality.

In the past year, I've slept _a lot. _

But waking up wasn't nearly as fulfilling as it had been in the past. Because, I'd wake up and for a brief moment, it was as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

Gale was alive.

Azalea was doing her job.

Prim was well.

Dad was happy.

In those brief glimpses of happiness, it would literally feel like my belly was on fire and my heart would swell to the point where I was sure it'd explode. _Because it had all been some horrible nightmare._ But then the world would come crashing down, so fast it'd knock the wind out of me.

And I'd realize, being asleep wasn't what I had to worry about at all.

Being awake is what caused the nightmares.

* * *

Thank you so much for all the favorite/alert adds and reviews, I appreciate them a whole lot! Just incase some of you didn't realize, I changed my tumblr URL it's **finnickshardtrident **now :) Link on my profile!

Also important note: The book Katniss refers to in this chapter is just something I made up. If it sounds at all familiar to a published book/story you've heard, there is no copyright infringement intended!


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins.**

Thank you to my beta fnur for all her help with this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

There seems to be no time limit on Prim's moodiness.

As I lazily make my way up the two flights of stairs, her groans of annoyance sound more prominently from inside of her bedroom. The door is cracked open - Dad must've poked in at some point to remind her to _get up._

She's trying to pretend she's invisible, but her attempts are futile. Ditching is not an option. Not on our very first day at the new school. Plus, due to the move, we've been absent from classes three days longer than we were originally scheduled for.

"Dad," she moans, as if she's in actual pain. From my spot outside her door, I can hear the sheets rustle under her tiny body.

"Dad!" she calls when he doesn't immediately answer.

I chance sticking my head in, casting a shadow on her ceiling from the light of the hallway shining through the door.

"Prim. Only thirty minutes until the bus will be here," I speak sternly. "It's time to get up."

She groans out something I can't understand into her pillow.

"Prim-"

"Dad!"

Dad's door swings open and he's fully dressed for the morning. Although he's washed those white undershirts thousands of times they still appear dirty with dust from the mines stubbornly ingrained. It's the same with his fingernails, and bottom of his feet.

He pats my back, his arms resting heavily around my shoulders before calling out to ask Prim what she needs.

"You're going to be late for your first day, you know."

"I'm not going."

Dad frowns.

"Yes, you are, Prim."

"_No, _I'm not," she insists. "I don't feel well. I'm not going."

"Well, what's wrong with you?" Dad questions.

" I. Don't. _Feel-"_

"_What _doesn't feel well?" he asks, his teeth gritting in annoyance. My body tightens. It'd be a miracle if we could make it one day. _Just one fucking day._

"_Everything!" _she bellows, shooting up from her spot in bed and holding a pillow tight to her chest. Her hair sticks up in every direction from sleep and her eyes are bloodshot. Her lips, pressed into a hard line, twitch just slightly before she huffs out a large breath of air and falls back with a thud.

"_Nothing _feels well. I'm _sick! _I'm sick and I want to lay here in bed and do nothing. I am _not_ going to school because I _am sick!"_

Dad doesn't try to fight her. Either he doesn't have time, or he doesn't have the patience. Whichever it is, he turns away from her room without another word or sigh of air and jogs down the stairs. I shuffle from the door, but not before I see Prim idly reach for a bottle of pills that sit unguarded on her nightstand.

She fiddles with the container and pries it open just as I leave the room. She really shouldn't have bottles of pills in her bedroom. Or anywhere within her reach without supervision. But if she's going to, I'll be damned if I'll stand around to be an accessory to her addiction.

Because that's what it is. An addiction. She's _addicted_ to feeling numb. To blocking the pain out of her head and drowning in sleeping pills and antidepressants and bitter music. But that is her life, not mine, and as much as I want to help her I am acutely aware that sometimes _I cannot._

I brush my teeth so roughly my gums bleed, and the taste of stale blood lingers in my mouth until the wind on the way to the bus dries it up.

* * *

Although I know Prim wouldn't have been much help at all, it still sucks having to face the first day completely alone.

I shouldn't be so angry. Prim isn't even in the same grade as me, so it's not like we have any classes with one another. And, judging by her pissy mood this morning, if she had gotten up to come she probably would have stormed off without me by now.

Still, the walk from the bus to my first period class is a long one.

I'm completely taken back by the way people just _stare_ as I walk the unfamiliar hallways. It's as if I have three heads and green scaly skin. They eye me up and down, trying to decipher if they've seen me before, turning their noses up in the other direction and whispering to one another once I've passed.

I'm probably guilty of these same acts back in Capitol when new kids moved in, but now, being on the receiving end, I vow to never do it again.

My locker couldn't be further away from the universe. I'm fairly sure Prim and I are the only ones who will end up traveling down this hallway on a regular basis. The lights flicker above where my locker is and it takes nearly five minutes to pry the old thing open.

I glance down at my schedule and sigh. _Of course_ my first class of the day is in the complete _opposite _direction than my locker. _Of course._

The bell rings out suddenly and I jump before turning red, hoping no one had seen. Of course no one had seen, I'm in the middle of nowhere.

I begin my blind navigation down the hallway, knowing very well there is no way I am going to make it to class on time.

Hopefully, the teachers can be a little lenient with me. Seeing as it's my first day and all.

They can't get too mad.

* * *

By the end of third period, I'm wondering what it would take to get out early. As it turns out, the teachers are _not_ lenient about tardiness (no matter the excuse) at all.

I walked into Geometry nearly twenty minutes late and before I was even given the chance to explain myself, was made the target of "a lesson" on why it's not all right to be late.

"_You've missed half our lesson, Ms. Everdeen," _she sniffed, her accent giving away that she is definitely not from around here originally. _"You should have been the first one in class, seeing as you're new and all. So much to catch up on."_

I wasn't _as_ late for my next subject, but trying to navigate my way through a whole new school is hard and I found that in Panem one wrong turn will throw you for a loop.

Prim is going to freak out.

I spent the last ten minutes of period three gazing at the map of the school that's plastered onto the back of this folder the attendance office gave to me. I'm almost positive I've come up with a clear route to take for my next class, but when the bell rings, and I'm standing in the center of the over crowded hallway, I'm completely turned around.

It's as if I'm invisible as the crowd of students simply part their way around me, barely even stopping to cast curious glances. A couple different people jab me with their elbows or slam their book bags into me (intentionally or unintentionally, I'm not sure) and I'm nearly knocked to the floor from a particularly rough shove.

With a deep sigh, I fight to find a free space along the wall. Who'd have known such a seemingly small town housed an incredibly large body of kids. Or maybe it just seems that way because everything around me is unfamiliar.

I pinch the bridge of my nose with my forefinger and thumb and massage the strained skin there gently. I seriously wonder if the nurse would be able to tell the difference (or care, really) between a fake cough and a real one.

"Katniss?"

The sound of my name being called out has me jump into a more upright position, because no one here should know it. The skin on my forearms tingle as my head snaps up in search for the voice.

Perhaps, I had imagined it? Or misheard...

"Katniss," the voice is no longer questioning, and holds a hint of familiarity to it. I spin my head to the left, and practically walk into Peeta.

In surprise, the folder I had been practically clutching in my arms falls with a loud _thud_ to the floor. Peeta's lips turn up into an amused smirk before bending down to pick it up.

"I got it," I murmur and he chuckles, already halfway up by the time I register it's even fallen.

"Here you are," he responds, easily. "Didn't expect to see you in school so soon."

I hadn't expected to see Peeta at all, really. Of course that was a ridiculous thought, because _where else would he go to school? _I had just forgotten.

Although I don't plan to admit it out loud, it is nice to see a familiar face among the crowd of unfamiliarity. I can almost feel my heart rate decreasing with his presence, even if I do _hardly_ know him.

"How's the first day going?" he inquires, apparently in no rush to get to his next class, as he lingers by the locker next to where I stand rigidly.

My frown deepens at his question and he laughs lightly.

"Dumb question," he notes, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk as he holds his breath before releasing it with a large gust of air. His arm swings around my shoulder and he grips it tightly before smiling down at me.

"So, where are you headed to now?"

"History," I grumble, glancing over my shoulder to watch his hand. I try shrugging him off, but every time his arm starts to slip he only adjusts it accordingly.

"History," he repeats. "Fourth period history. Hey, my friend has fourth period history."

"You don't say."

"I do," he retorts. "That's why I said it. Yup, she definitely has fourth period history. I'll be happy to help you make her acquaintance."

"Oh, good."

He smirks down at me in a way that has me thinking he doesn't realize I've seen him before turning back toward the front of the hallway.

With Peeta's arm planted firmly around me, I've seemed to have turned from invisible to _very, definitely visible. _ He waves and smiles to practically everyone we pass who all return the setiment to him and cast furrowed eyebrows of confusion my way.

I try to shrug him off again, but his heavy arm refuses to budge. I huff out in annoyance. I don't like him touching me. I don't know him _at all _(besides the fact his name is Peeta and he lives next door to me). I'm not sure what exactly gives him the right to touching me with this rather friendly disposition.

"Annie!" he calls out rather suddenly, and finally his arm lets go of me as he waves them above his head. His voice is deep, but holds a bit of a boyish tone to it, especially when it rises the way it is now.

Annie's leaning against a desk, her boot-clad feet balancing on the tips of her toes before she turns toward the sound of her name. Her curious expression lifts to one of delight at the sight of Peeta and broadens when she notices me standing beside him.

"Hey there," she greets, looking more to me than him.

"Annie, this is Katniss. She's new here and I'd like you-"

"I know Katniss," Annie scoffs, smacking my arm lightly like we're lifelong buddies. She turns to Peeta like he's truly _dense_ for not realizing this and then leans her weight against the doorframe.

Peeta's eyebrows knit together in confusion and his lips barely part before Annie continues on.

"Yeah, we met at the library last week. She's going to start working there with me, right Kat?"

Ugh, there it is.

I nod, trying hard to think of an equally annoying nickname to begin calling her by.

"No, no, no," Peeta says, waving his arms around and shaking his head. "I don't care if she's met Annie the _librarian... _also known as, Annie: the boring."

"Hey," she says, feigning hurt though her lips are turned up into a smile.

"It's true," Peeta shrugs, pursing his lips. "I meant, Katniss needs to meet Annie: high school student and my friend."

It seems like everyone is friends with Peeta around here. I've heard his name called out at least four times since our simple walk down the hall and he appears to know of everyone just as well as they know him. Even the shy girls who pass and can only offer forth a wave, he readily says hello to.

I roll my eyes.

"Well in that case," Annie chuckles, throwing her hand out in front of my body. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

I sort of half-laugh, half-snort and take her hand in my own, shaking it floppily. Her arm jingles from all the bracelets that cover it and after it slips out of mine, runs through her messy hair.

Peeta grabs hold of my back again and pushes me in closer to Annie with a satisfied smile.

"She'll help you find your way after class," he insists and I bite back the urge to explain that I really don't need help. I can find my classes on my own.

_Twenty minutes late, but I can find them._

"What _do_ you have after class?" Annie wonders, glancing over my shoulder at the schedule that sits on top of my folder.

"Lunch," I reply.

"Oh," Peeta says, his voice raising with what I think is excitement. "Mine too. Annie too."

"Finny too," Annie smirks, then turns to me to explain that is her boyfriend. "You can totally sit with us."

The bell rings and as Peeta disappears down the hallway, and our classroom door closes, Annie pulls me in further to take the seat directly next to her own.

It's the first class of the day where my mind is relaxed enough to actually pay attention. It's not that I would have minded finding my classes all on my own, or sitting by myself at lunch, because I've never really minded those things...

But, it's also kind of nice knowing I won't have to.

* * *

After history, Annie mentions she has to go to her locker before lunch, and like a lost puppy dog, I simply follow her wherever she turns. Her locker is in a more prime location, which now I'm beginning to think isn't so great.

Annie slides her locker open without entering any sort of code before tossing the couple binders in her arms inside. I see why she doesn't bother to lock it. Inside there is nothing but crumpled papers, a broken mirror, and her school books. Nothing of value anyone would want, really.

She grabs a new set of binders before pushing the thing closed and turning back to me right as the bubble she's blown up with her gum pops.

"Ready?"

The hallways have cleared significantly since class first let out and the bell rings signaling class has begun several minutes before we make it past the cafeteria doors.

Inside, there's a never ending _buzzing_ from the collective students several conversations. Annie weaves a path for us through several different tables before landing at a near empty one; with different binders and book bags piled on top.

"Need a lunch?" she asks, pulling a chair up behind her and falling down into it.

"Yeah."

"All right, well the line is easy enough to locate. You don't need me to stand with you, do you?" she teases.

"No."

"Cool. Peeta and Finny should be in line anyway. You can probably cut with them."

I only vaguely remember what Annie's boyfriend looks like, so instead I search for the tall, broad boy with the piercingly blue eyes who has the annoying habit of touching me and knows every single person in the school.

He spots me before I spot him, about halfway up in the line and motions for me to join him. It doesn't look like he's accompanied by anyone else, the way he stands with his arms crossed over his stomach, obliviously glancing around the dining hall.

"Katniss, I have yet to learn your last name," he says first thing.

"You don't need to know it," I insist and his eyebrows lift in an amused manner.

"Wow, all right," he chuckles mostly to himself, moving up a couple inches as the line moves.

Peeta is different from other people I've associated myself with in the past. Mostly because of his naturally friendly and outspoken disposition. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but I'm not used to the small talk everyone seems to make around here and I'm definitely not accustomed to the directness behind his questions.

He's just a friendly person. He's no different toward me than he is any other person in this cafeteria. The difference _is _I don't reciprocate. And I think that amuses him.

Which confuses me. Because stereotypically, the handsome (it's an undeniable fact), well-liked boy doesn't care to play "catch" with someone who will consistently drop the ball. So I find myself wondering what his angle is. _Why exactly_ he's wasting so much time with these silly conversations about my last name, or hanging around me in general.

"You are an extremely unhappy person," Peeta says after a long minute of silence. His words cut through my inner debate and I find myself blinking rapidly, trying to make sense of his words.

"Excuse me?"

"Why, though?"

His question takes me back slightly, and I don't immediately respond. We've made our way into the actual lunch room now and Peeta hands me a styrofoam lunch tray from the side of the counter.

"It's really none of your business," I finally reply, playing with the edges of the tray.

He laughs at this response, throwing me off guard yet again. Perhaps he had been expecting it, and that's why he found it so amusing.

"It's actually not that funny, either," I say, staring at him through narrowed eyes, which only makes him laugh harder. I huff out a large breath of air.

"Oh, I feel sorry for you, Katniss no-last-name," he says, scooping a pile of low-grade meat onto the side of his tray. "I hate that your life is so miserable that you can't even return a smile. Or the tiniest laugh."

"Well, you know nothing about misery to compare it to," I bite back, feeling rather exposed by his words. "In fact, you honestly have no idea what you're even talking about."

He watches me silently, his lips twisted up into a stupid little smirk and he nods his head in time with each of my statements. That one small movement is enough to make my blood boil beneath my skin.

"You know what? I don't owe you an explanation. We aren't friends," I say matter-of-factly, shaking my head. "We're not even acquaintances."

"I know your name... well, sort of. I know your _first_ name," he retorts. "I know where you live. Surely acquaintances know these things."

"That's called stalking, not acquainting," I retort, and he laughs again, a carefree notion as he hands a couple dollar bills to the lunch attendant. I follow his footsteps, throwing the same amount her way before chasing to keep up with the boy who causes conflicting feelings of fury and amusement to course through my body.

"I _will_ get you to laugh," he assures me. "It's my new goal."

* * *

Prim is in a relatively good mood. She must have gotten a sufficient amount of sleep while I was away, and taken her medicine, because she wears a lazy smile and is actually cleaning up around the house when I push past the door.

I had fully expected to find her hidden under a dome of blankets, still clad in yesterday's pajamas and am surprised to see she's actually changed for the day and smells of fresh soap when she wraps her arms around me.

"I missed you today," she says with a shrug when I furrow my eyebrows in her direction.

"How was the new school?"

Moments like these are painful. To the point where I'd almost rather they didn't exist at all. Because Prim is rarely _happy_ anymore. Sure, she floats in a strange medium state a lot of the time, but her smile rarely reaches her eyes anymore and today it does.

I decide that rather than sitting around waiting for the moment to disappear, to take advantage of it while it lasts. I pull up one of the chairs from the dining room and fall down into it with a heavy sigh.

"It's not bad," I admit, then add, "Bigger than Capitol."

"Huh," she says, nodding her head just slightly. "How much bigger?"

I shrug before throwing out, "Capitol is probably a little bigger than half Panem's size."

"Damn. Did you get lost?"

"Nah," I lie, because I know the truth will stress her out, which will only scare her into bailing out again tomorrow. "It's not too hard to navigate around. I'll show you."

_If I can remember._

"All right."

* * *

After dinner, Prim has a breakdown at the mention of the upcoming school day.

I hadn't meant to freak her out, I had only mentioned how our lockers were in a less busy area of the school, but something in my words triggered nerves in her brain and she just started going... _ape shit. _

"Calm _down_, Primrose," Dad urges. He tries to sound soothing as he places a hand on her back, rubbing tight circles, but his voice comes out broken and strained.

He's stressed. Stressed this is happening. Stressed this _keeps_ happening. He more than anyone wishes Prim was well, but she's not, and he doesn't always know how to deal with it.

His stress doesn't translate well with Prim, who mistakes it for anger and swats his hand away from her body with a scowl. She pushes herself up from the chair and pushes it into the table roughly, her jaw clenched.

"Is that all you can say?" she insists, throwing her arms up. My eyes dart to Dad, who wears an expression of confusion. His mouth opens and then closes again before he runs a hand over his face tiredly.

"_Calm down, Primrose," _she mocks, her fingers moving in time with her words to form air quotations. "Don't you think if I could I fucking would? I... I-" she's gasping again, her chest heaving and arms shaking with effort to calm herself.

Her hands knot in her hair and she pulls roughly, her eyes shut as if she's in literal pain, as if there's loud noise moving around her and she has no idea how to stop it.

"Prim," I try, but her hand flies up to silence me. Her four fingers are pressed together tightly, her thumb underneath - like a mouth - and she continues to snap them together until I roll my eyes, leaning against the wall.

"I can't go there tomorrow," she breathes out. "I just can't. I hate change. I hate this. I can't do it."

"Prim, you need to go to school," Dad informs her gently. "I let you miss today but I am putting my foot down. You can't stop going-"

"Well if you hadn't made us leave Capitol none of this would be happening! No one ever thinks about _me_ or what it's like to be _me. _I can't handle _this big of change!"_

"Prim, don't be selfish because you're upset," I interject, growing angry with her accusing words. "Dad thinks about you always. So do I. You're not thinking clearly."

"What does that mean?" she bites, defensively. "I think just fine, Katniss. But you know how it is for me. You know it's hard. I can't do it tomorrow, I'm not going."

"Prim, you _are_ going to school tomorrow," Dad says, rubbing his temples. "It's not up for discussion. You've missed too much. You're going back."

I want to tell him to just let it go, to deal with it some other time when she's calmed down. But if it's not now then it's later tonight and if not later tonight it's morning, so there's really no point in leading her to believe something that won't be true.

"No!" she shouts.

"Yes!" his voice is one notch louder than hers.

I walk away at that point, trying desperately to tune out the sound of their argument by repeating the alphabet in spanish before slamming the door behind me on my way out.

I run my fingers through my hair, pulling at the roots and turning my chin up toward the sky. I breathe deeply _in_ and _out_ while pacing back and forth along the length of our side of the porch.

The fresh air is good; relaxing and the deeper I breathe it in the slower my heart rate becomes and I can feel my clenching muscles being to loosen slightly.

"We have to stop meeting like-"

"-Damn _it," _I gasp in surprise when I register his voice. I whip my head in his direction, jaw dropping in disbelief as I feel color draining from my cheeks.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I half-laugh, hysteria rising within me. He's frowning, like he doesn't quite get the joke, and I kick something invisible before falling down onto the edge of the porch, mimicking his posture.

"Of _course_ you heard all of that."

"You ok?" he asks, ignoring my monologue, and when I don't immediately respond, adds, "I wasn't listening. I promise."

"But you heard."

His expression is sheepish.

"It's not that big of a deal," he assures and I shake my head before he can even finish the sentence.

"Bullshit," I hiss. "Look just do me a favor and keep this to yourself, ok? Don't go around telling your hundreds of friends."

Peeta doesn't respond, and I can't read his expression because I've buried my burning cheeks into my hands, leaning my elbows against my jean clad thighs. When I finally muster the confidence to look up at him, my words catch in my throat.

"Did you fucking hea- _what?"_

He's just _staring_ at me.

"Come on," he says, standing up and dusting his pants off.

I stare at him for a long minute in confusion before he motions again with his hand, asking if I was planning on coming.

"Where?"

"Oh, just come on," he teases, digging around for his keys.

I blink with confusion, pulling myself up from my spot on the porch and move across the damp lawn to his side of the house, following him down the path that leads to his pick-up truck. The locks are manual and he has to lean over the center console to open the old door on my side before starting it up.

The inside smells a lot like him. Or he, it. Almost like cinnamon, but not quite. There's a hint of something else that throws it off. But, I find it a little strange, the mixture of smells that surround him.

Not _bad._ Just different.

Peeta speeds down the street and turns onto the main road without hardly looking. I don't ask him where we're going again, because I don't exactly care. I just needed to get out of that house, and off that porch where every single word could be heard through the foundation.

Everything seems to still in the silence that surrounds us. The only noise that can be heard is that of the wind pressing against the windshield at our speed and the hard work of his old engine struggling to keep up as he presses down on the gas harder.

"Katniss no-last-name?" Peeta asks, his voice almost sing-songy.

When he doesn't continue, I figure he's looking for a response and humor him with a slight _hmmm?_

"Do you like ice cream?"

"I do?" I say, it coming out more as a question than a response. He smirks, a motion I see only through the corner of my eye and nods as he turns the corner.

"Oh good. Because that's where we're going."

"I didn't bring money," I say, my voice trailing off lamely.

"But I didn't ask you to."

* * *

Peeta treats me to ice cream - a notion I would typically refuse but can't find it in me to do today. It's a cute little ice cream shop that is apparently open year-round and sits on the outskirts of The Heart of Panem.

It's self-serve, pay by the ounce, and has a million and one toppings to choose from. Peeta calls me boring when he notes I've only topped my vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce and a couple nuts. His appears to have more toppings than it does ice cream.

"It's not boring," I retort, spooning a little past my lips. "Just not overly complicated."

"Like mine," he snorts.

"I never said that."

We place our containers on top of a small scale that sits by the cash wrap and some girl who's been staring at Peeta since we walked in tells us our total is ten thirty-four.

"Hi, Peeta," she smiles, pushing a corkscrew curl behind her ear.

"Hi, Delly," he responds smoothly, handing me my container before handing her his card. "How are you?"

"Good," she giggles. "You?"

"Just swell," he sighs, sticking his wallet back into his pocket. "See you around."

"See you."

Peeta notices my questioning gaze as we slip past the door back into the chilly pre-spring air. The sky is a hazy shade of gray, the plump clouds doing well to hide what's left of today's sun behind them.

"What?" he asks, as if he already knows why I'm casting him the look.

"Nothing," I smirk, "Just wondering if girls around here are _always_ tripping over themselves for your attention."

"Oh my god," he cackles, and doesn't respond for a minute while we pile into his truck.

"Delly was my first grade girlfriend," he explains, still smiling broadly. "It didn't work out."

"Apparently she wishes it had."

"Well, you know, first loves and all," he teases. "They're hard to get over. Especially when they're as handsome as hers is."

"Oh, brother."

"So, Katniss no-last-name, I've been thinking if we aren't yet acquaintances, perhaps we should fix that."

"If we weren't acquaintances, _Peeta no-last-name -_ because I don't know yours either, you know - I wouldn't be in your car right now."

"So sometime between lunch and the past half an hour, we've bumped up to acquainting one another?"

"It appears so," I say, staring ahead as I spoon some more of my ice cream into my mouth. Peeta doesn't make a move to turn the car on but leans back comfortably into his seat and bites into some of his own creation.

"Hmm," he tries. "So maybe between here and the ride home, we could bump our status up to friends then."

"Don't hold your breath."

"Damn, what the hell does it take to become your friend?" he half-chuckles.

"Why_ the hell_ is it so important?" I snap without really meaning to and Peeta grows quiet beside me. I don't look at him directly, but I swear I see a tint of pink stain his cheeks from the corner of my eye.

He starts the car up and we're driving down the main road for a long while before he clears his throat, the typical chipper tone back inside of it.

"Can't ever have enough friends, right?"

"Wrong," I murmur, guilt welling up inside of me. But I couldn't stop the words even if I had wanted to. "The more people you let into your life, the more complicated things get."

"Sometimes complicated things aren't so horrible," Peeta refutes, turning onto the street. "And, as far as I can see, I'm the only one."

I turn to look at him, and he casts a stupid grin my way before pulling into his driveway. "So how complicated can it be?"

I open my mouth to respond, but instead fill it with ice cream when the words refuse to come forward.

"Mellark."

"What?" I ask, confused.

"My last name, it's Mellark. Peeta Mellark."

"Ah," I say, nodding before unbuckling my seatbelt. Peeta watches me, as though he were utterly fascinated until I've pulled the door open and jumped out of the truck.

"Everdeen," I return with a shrug, before I have time to regret it. His ears perk up with my voice and his lips curl just slightly.

"Katniss Everdeen."

* * *

Thanks again to anyone who left reviews or added _Amidst_ to their favorites or alerts. You can find me on tumblr under the URL finnickshardtrident, come chat if you'd like :)


	5. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. **

A big thank you to my beta fnur for all her hard work on this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Four

* * *

Prim looks like she belongs in the circus, the way her body twists with extreme effort to keep me from viewing her computer screen. Her fingers move madly across the keyboard and every now and then, I catch the glimpse of a shy smile dangling on her lips.

I roll my eyes, adjusting my position on the couch, really paying no attention whatsoever to the show playing on the television.

Prim is chatting with some boy-stranger online. She can try contorting her body all she wants, but it's not very hard to see through her guise.

I've warned Prim about the dangers of chatting with strangers who don't give a shit about her before. Told her that she's too young and there's only one thing online boys (or creepy perverted men) want from her on those sites she visits, and once she puts it out there it's out there forever.

But that's the thing. _She's too young. _Too young to see the danger and too young to listen to me.

The trouble with Prim is that since she was a little girl being picked on at the playground, she has experienced an overwhelming need to feel loved and wanted by _anyone._

When she first lost weight, she was "graced" with the approval of some of the douchey boys who had called her horrid names not two years previous, and they began showering her with attention. I warned her about those boys too, told her they were pigs and told her it'd be best to stay away but Prim does what she wants to do, so, she continued to see the boys. Until they broke her heart.

Earlier last year, a little while after Azalea first left, she turned to the internet for attention she was no longer getting from the school boys (everyone knew Prim was a little... _unstable_ after they witnessed several blowups on her end).

It was during the worst time. Azalea had been gone a solid four weeks and Prim was still holding on to the hope that she would return, or call or at least email her. Dad cried a lot during that time period. Not because he missed Azalea - honestly, their marriage was over years before she finally got the hell out - but because he hated seeing his daughter's eyes filled with false hope.

It actually was horrible... seeing her slumped body stiffen with anticipation every single time a car door shut outside... the way she would rush to the answering machine when it blinked with a missed call.

I almost told her several times. _Azalea is not coming back! Why do you even want her back? _But that wouldn't help matters any.

When Prim finally realized her mother had no intentions of coming back for her, she broke every plate in our pantry.

Dad let her, and we cleaned up the mess after she went stomping up the stairs, sobbing hysterically.

I tried going to talk to her - Dad thought it might do some good - but Prim wouldn't even let me into her bedroom, and any time I re-knocked or tried talking she'd scream at the top of her lungs for me to _just leave her alone!_

She said that a lot, actually.

Little did Dad and I know that when she was cooped up in her bedroom, refusing to come out, she was doing more than writing depressing poetry and listening to angry music. She had also signed up for some sort of online chatting site which allowed strangers free access to her.

For a bit, she seemed happier and I thought that maybe she had finally come to peace with the idea of us continuing on with life without Azalea. She started eating dinner with us again, but retreated to her bedroom most nights shortly after - claiming there was homework to be done, and all.

She started kissing Dad's cheek again and letting me braid her hair, so when we'd hear her bedroom door shut and music begin bouncing off her walls, Dad and I would shrug and continue on silently alongside one another.

But then, one Saturday afternoon (after a particularly trying Friday evening) when Dad was still away at work, I noticed the house was completely silent from where I sat in my bedroom. Prim's bedroom was only one wall over from mine, and usually I could hear her music almost perfectly.

But that day, there was none. It was only one in the afternoon, so the chance that Prim had crawled back into bed and fallen asleep was likely. She slept a lot. But I couldn't shake the eerie feeling something was _wrong. _

I crossed down the hall to her bedroom and knocked on the door gently twice. There was no answer, so I tried twice more. When she still refused to respond, I twisted the doorknob to find it was unlocked and pushed my way inside.

Her room was messy with clothes thrown about in every direction, junk piled on top of her nightstand, and some dirty dishes from when she must have brought snacks up. But her bed was bare.

"Prim?" I called down the stairs, and my voice echoed off the walls. After the air finished sucking up the sound of my voice, silence over took the house once more. It was so quiet, I could hear the heat circulating.

"Prim?" I tried louder, masking the nervousness in my tone with irritation. I sighed deeply, hoping she heard me and will respond as I take the stairs by two. As I took my last step onto the main level, my ears picked up the sound of drums and a bass thumping gently.

I followed the noise down the hallway which leads to the bathroom and the closer I drew the more distinct her music became, until I could make out every word clearly through the door.

My eyebrows furrowed as I jiggled the handle, but it was locked.

"Prim?" I tried over the sound of the impossibly loud music. "Prim!"

I banged on the door loudly but there is no response. I began to panic then, because Prim hadn't been in the best of places lately, and she doesn't ever _not_ respond to me.

"Open the fucking door!" I shouted, jiggling it continuously, pressing my body tightly against it. I banged my fist on it as hard as I could when there's still no response and continued to push myself into it forcibly until it finally caved inward.

"No!" she screamed as I came flying in. Immediately the foul stench of blood filled my nostrils, and everywhere I looked is splattered red. Prim held the sharp end of a kitchen knife to the inside of her thigh and jerked it across her skin roughly, causing a fresh wound to form.

"Prim!" I screamed and lunged for her as she yelled at the top of her lungs. In our mutual struggle for dominance, my arm got a pretty nasty gash that stung immediately and got a pretty nasty infection a few days later.

I managed to get it out of her hands and she sunk to a puddle, sobbing openly into her hands as I flung it as far away from her as possible.

"What the fuck!" I yelled, my breaths coming out in deep pants. Her music still blares as her entire body shook, shock beginning to set into her system.

"Leave me alone, Katniss!" she bellowed, trying to wipe her tears away but only staining her face with blood from her mangled arms. "Just let me fucking _die! _I want to! Please!"

She clearly hadn't wanted to. After I called the police, scared for her (and a little bit of my own) life, and they brought her to the hospital to be properly cleaned and taken care of, a nurse told Dad and I that the wounds were very blunt and wouldn't do any lasting damage.

If she had really wanted to die, she would have cut into her chest, not her thighs and arms. She had just wanted to feel something, _anything,_ to rid the inner pain and numbness floating through her limbs.

She giggles softly from her spot on the opposite end of the couch, snapping me back into reality. As it turned out, the straw that had broken the camel's back had been one of her little internet buddies "breaking up" with her. Mixed with the emotional drama of Azalea abandoning her, and the bottomless loneliness she felt, _hurting_ herself seemed like the most logical of options.

"What?" she asks, noticing me staring. She wears a guilty expression. One thing Prim has never been good at is lying, and she knows from the second our eyes meet that I know fully well what she is doing over there. I don't even need to respond.

I hear her fingers move madly against the keyboard a couple more times before she closes the screen and pushes the small computer off to the side.

"What're you doing, Katniss?" she asks, scooting herself closer to me until she's practically on top of me. She rests her head on my shoulder and although my body stiffens, I bite back the urge to push her off.

I'm not a huge fan of physical contact, but Prim takes it personally when I pull away from or dismiss her signs of affection.

"Oh, nothing," I sigh, running my fingers through her loose hair. Nearly all of it has fallen out of the messy braid she tucked it into earlier and sits around her face in gentle blonde waves. "What were _you_ doing?"

Prim's mouth lifts up just slightly and her blue eyes narrow. God, she looks just like Azalea.

Prim and I really look nothing alike. Her skin is fair for my dark complexion, her hair blonde for my deep brown, her face perfectly symmetrical for my slightly crooked one. I remember back in grade school when Azalea would come to pick us up, a couple of kids from my class would ask if I had been adopted.

I'd say Prim is beautiful, but the word feels wrong on my tongue because of how closely she resembles the person I hate most. The woman who ruined absolutely everything. So I come to the conclusion that if I passed Prim on the street, I'd think she were beautiful. But here, in these circumstances, I find it hard to look at her too long some days.

"Nothing," she says, dragging out the 'ing.' Before I can respond though, she's off the couch, adjusting the sweatpants that are least three times too big for her. She ties the drawstring tighter and double knots it before letting her shirt fall back down over her flat belly and grabs her computer.

"I'm going to go upstairs for a while before bed. Goodnight, Katniss."

"Night, Prim," I mutter, too drained to chastise her for something she knows she shouldn't get involved in. I watch as she flits up the staircase and moments later the door to her bedroom shuts tightly.

I run my open palms over my cheeks and eyeballs before sighing heavily, sinking further into the couch. It's past nine o'clock and I'm not the least bit tired, but there's nothing to really keep me busy on these upper floors... besides shit television.

I turn the TV off and push myself up off of the old couch, cracking my back with a low grunt. For a moment my mind drifts to thoughts of going outside to sit on the porch for a little while. _It might be nice to get some fresh air, _my mind rationalizes.

But, as quickly as the thought appears it disappears because with the thought of going to sit on the porch comes the thought that possibly Peeta might be out there. And if he's out there he'll probably engage me in some annoying type of conversation, which I'm pretty sure I _don't _want.

Pretty sure.

I opt to just go down to the basement and read for a little while instead. It's dark out anyway, so the temperatures would more than likely be unbearably cold and before long I'd have to traipse my ass back inside.

I brush my teeth and let my hair out from its braid in the downstairs bathroom before heading to the basement for the night.

There's always a blast of what feels like cold air that hits my face as I pass the final step onto the carpeting. I immediately tumble backwards onto the mattress that lays on the floor and pull a pair of wooly socks that I keep tucked down the side of it free and onto my feet.

My copy of _The Limitless Dream _sits idly on top of the small radio I found in the basement of our old house back when we moved. I reach for it, while turning on the radio and prop a pillow against the wall to lean on.

I flip open to the dog-eared page I marked last night and smooth out the corner so it's hardly noticeable. It's not like they're going to check every page for dog-earring anyway, but Prim would be appalled. It totally bugs the shit out of her when I do that. But this book is so old and wrinkly it really doesn't matter anyway.

There hasn't been much time for reading lately, so I'm only on chapter twelve, but Ruth has just discovered a sort of crack in her internal prison. Like, a malfunction almost. She's still stranded in the sea, but she knows she is dreaming now, whereas in the past she would know for only a split second (when she heard her parents calling for her) but when a new wave of unconsciousness hit her, the memory of before would be wiped away too.

I can't figure out if it's a good thing she knows or a bad thing. My instincts tell me it's good - she knows the problem, now all she has to do is fix it - but another debating part of my mind wonders how good it can really do you if you're stuck against your will?

It's sort of like being in that strange state of awareness before your body wakes up. A paralyzing sleep, I've heard it described as - where you know fully well you're awake and lying limply in bed, but you can't for the life of you _move. _

A voice sounds from over my music, pulling me away from my book and causing me to cast a glance in either direction of me. I turn my music down, because I figure it's coming from upstairs and silently wonder if it's someone calling out for me or if they're just fighting with one another.

I strain my ears to listen, but there is no noise in return. My eyebrows furrow and I lift my book up from off of my lap, my hand barely grazing over the volume button before I hear it again.

It's _definitely_ a voice. But I realize it's coming from the _other_ side of the wall, not upstairs. Peeta had not been kidding when he mentioned these walls were easy to hear through.

I bite my lip. This conversation is not one meant for my ears, but the fingers that dance around the volume button refuse to twist it and I find my body unconsciously leaning toward the wall.

The voice is distinctively female. Her words are muffled, but I can still make out a few here and there and judging by the tone alone, it's not hard to tell she's pretty pissed off.

It's only then that I realize how little I know about Peeta Mellark's family. I don't think I've ever even _seen_ anyone from his family besides him. By process of elimination, I conclude the female voice must belong to his mother because it holds too much authority to be a sibling.

"Bullshit!" I hear her exclaim before her ramblings become incoherent again.

_I should stop, _I chastise myself. _I shouldn't be doing this._

I've been on the receiving end of this, and the anger that boiled through me at the mere thought of Peeta Mellark - a boy I hardly knew - overhearing my personal family discussions (arguments) infuriated me.

But my body is paralyzed. Every time she yells out, I feel my muscles stiffen the way they do when anyone raises their voice. As if she were personally yelling at me.

"You think I don't know that?" I hear so clearly that I jump back slightly. It's Peeta's voice, almost unrecognizable behind a layer of anguish. He must be right on the other side of the wall.

"Worthless!"

There's a loud crash and by pure shock my fingers twitch, cranking the volume up until it blasts loudly through my speakers. I let it for a long time, sitting motionless on top of my bed, staring at the wall, near breathless from the anxiety coursing through me.

* * *

It bothers me, as I lay in bed unable to sleep, thinking about the way Peeta's mother had talked to him. I know I don't know the entire story, and there might be good reason for her yelling... but the mere thought of the sound in Peeta's voice causes my heart to clench uncomfortably in my chest.

Which, _I hate. _Because that would suggest I care for him. Even in the smallest way.

Since Azalea left, and Gale left and Prim tried leaving, I've significantly limited the people I allow myself to care for. People are fickle, even if they don't mean to be, and can't be trusted to form long bonds with.

I flip over onto my side and pull the covers up to my chin, curling my legs up into my stomach like a cocoon.

_He's always so chipper, _my internal thoughts surround me and then I chastise myself for using the word "always." Technically, Peeta Mellark and I have only interacted on three separate occasions.

But he has this undeniable charm about him, the kind that leads you to believe you've known one another for years rather than weeks.

Either way... as long as _I've_ known Peeta Mellark he's been nothing but smiles. The epitome of optimism.

The closest I came to hearing the tone his voice carried tonight was when I snapped at him in the car the other day. What did I say, exactly?

I can't remember, but it must have struck a nerve with him because I _do_ remember the way his cheeks turned inexplicably pink and he didn't talk for a long time.

Even that was nothing compared to a couple hours ago. Because he sounded _pained_, not slightly embarrassed.

I roll onto my back again with a heavy breath and run my hands over my face. No matter how I lay, the position doesn't seem right.

It occurs to me, as I lay uncomfortably but wide awake, that maybe this "friendly demeanor" is all just a front. Like, a game he chooses to play to distract others (and possibly even himself) from the things going on around him.

A defense mechanism is a better word to describe it then game, because really that's what it is. He uses humor and charm as a defense mechanism similar to the way I channel people out for mine.

To keep ourselves safe.

The final time I light up my phone to check the time, it reads twelve minutes past one. I fall asleep sometime shortly after that, but not before deciding that I won't tell Peeta I heard his mother.

At least, not tomorrow.

* * *

The right half of Peeta's face is swollen.

"Yeah, Rye and I got into a scrap," he explains to a group of his _very concerned_ female friends.

The skin surrounding it is an angry shade of pink and his bottom lip, puffy and slightly purple, is cracked open with a scab that has hardly had time to form.

It looks painful.

"You boys shouldn't play around so roughly!" I hear the blonde from the ice cream shop chide from across the hallway and Peeta tries to smile but winces instead.

My thoughts immediately flood back to last night. The screaming, the fighting... and I feel my stomach twisting in knots uncomfortably.

_That can't be from his mother, _I insist internally. I saw the woman with the loud voice this morning on my way to the bus. She was bringing out garbage to the edge of her driveway.

She didn't look like she weighed more than a hundred and forty pounds and couldn't be over five-foot-four. She's half of Peeta's size, surely he could stop her if she was trying to harm him?

Peeta is a good liar though, and knows how to make the story believable without causing too much question. He goes on about how he really gave his older brother a run for his money there for a while before he was socked in the lip and it split open.

He grows more animated as his mini crowd responds to the tale and his arms move in time with his lips, dramatically. His mouth is open - mid-sentence - when his eyes catch mine from across the somewhat crowded hallway. They linger a second too long and then he blinks, looking down to regain his composure, but it's lost.

Peeta may be fooling the people who have basically grown up alongside him - they know no different than his lies - but I see right through them.

I really wish I didn't.

* * *

The day passes by pretty slowly. Each class seems twice as long, except for lunch which passes rather quickly. Peeta wasn't there today though, so I mostly talked with Annie, who was very good at splitting her attention between me, Finnick and her other friends.

I haven't talked much with Finnick yet, but we smile at one another when we pass by in the hallway and a couple of times, he's laughed at things I've said that I hadn't even meant to be funny.

But I like him.

I'm not sure where Peeta disappeared off to though, and I was too embarrassed to ask Annie. I thought for a while he had gone home to rest up, but then after seventh period I passed him in the hallway. He was busily chatting with another "concerned" friend of his about his busted face.

I really didn't care.

The hallways seem much more crowded toward the end of the day, with everybody shoving and pushing to get to their cars or bus quickly. Since my locker is so far out of the way, I stopped by to get my things before ninth began and feel less of a rush to get to where I need to go.

"Hey, Katniss! Wait up!" The familiar voice of Peeta Mellark sounds over the consistent hum of students in the hallway.

I stop in my spot abruptly - surely pissing off the students directly behind me - but don't turn to face him. A couple seconds later, I feel a rough tug on my braid and instinctively I position it over the side of my shoulder, protectively.

He tries smirking down at me, a difficult gesture given the current state of his face, which has definitely grown more purplish since this morning.

"God, your face looks awful," I find myself saying before I can stop it, and then a stinging laces my cheeks as blood flows to them.

"Gee, thanks," he chuckles, gripping his book bag with his hands as we continue down the hallway side by side.

"Sorry... I didn't mean it that way," I try sheepishly but he shrugs it off with the flick of his wrist.

"You speak the truth, Katniss Everdeen," he sighs. "My face does look awful."

"How'd you say that happened, again?" I ask him, watching the tiles disappear under my feet with each step. I can see his eyes on mine from the corner of my vision but don't move to match his gaze. For a long minute, he's silent and then dives into a barely audible explanation of how he and his brother had been wrestling and things got out of hand. The same excuse he told his friends earlier, and probably everyone who asked throughout the day.

He's definitely lost some of his conviction since this morning, but I can't tell if that's because he knows he's not fooling me or if he's simply tired of telling the story over again.

"_That's_ right," I say with a nod, curling my lips into my mouth. And he's watching me again. "You should probably put some ice on it, or something."

"Already did," he smirks before running a hand over the back of his head almost nervously. "Well, I didn't call your name to talk about my face."

"Then what did you call my name for?" I challenge.

Peeta Mellark pushes the front door leading out of the school open and holds it until I pass through. The sun is actually out today and shines down brightly, causing me to wince as my eyes adjust. Peeta's already wincing eyes seem almost closed.

He stops walking a few feet away from the doors and shoves his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunching as if he were cold. I stop walking beside him and eye him curiously, since he still hasn't given me an answer.

"I was wondering if I could give you a ride home. That is why I called your name."

"A ride home?" I repeat, my voice monotone as I raise an eyebrow up at him.

"Yes, it's a friendly gesture commonly prac-"

"-We're not friends," I cut him off and he snorts, shaking his head as if I've just told the world's funniest joke.

"All right, then as your next door neighbor. I would feel... _rude_ not offering a ride to you, seeing as you live inches away from me. It only makes sense to carpool."

He has a point. A stupid one, because I have a feeling if I lived all the way back in Capitol he'd still offer me a ride, but the fact of the matter is I don't. I'm his next door neighbor, and I have to admit the bus has been less than ideal.

And Peeta's truck isn't all that bad.

"My sister," I say suddenly, and his playful expression melts to one of confusion as he mouths the word 'sister.'

"She's on the bus," I continue, not sure if I'm reminding myself or informing him.

"That bus," I point down a long line of buses. "Over there. And she's expecting me to get on it and sit with her."

"You know, if I didn't already know _very well_ that this sister existed, I would be questioning whether or not this was just some sort of excuse."

"Not an excuse," I shake my head. "One hundred percent legitimate."

"And this sister of yours..." he begins, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "She's incapable of getting on and off the bus without your assistance?"

"Well, not really bu-"

"Surely she won't mind if you miss just _one_ bus ride home, will she? You could even text her so she doesn't worry, and if we hurry and beat the buses I can have you home before she even gets down the street."

I bite my lip, my feet turned in the direction of the bus, but eyes locked with Peeta's curious ones. I don't know _why _part of me wants to go with him, but it does and that's ultimately why I reach down into my pocket to pull my phone free, bringing up Prim's number.

"Where's your truck, Mellark?"

* * *

Peeta speeds out of the parking lot to beat the slow moving buses and brakes heavily at the mandatory stop light just in front of the school.

"So, Katniss Everdeen who most certainly _isn't_ my friend but uses me for my awesome ride," he winks with his good eye. "You've mentioned before you're from Capitol."

"Yes," I frown, trying to find a comfortable position to rest my hands in. I play around with a couple different things until they end up in a ball on my lap and I huff gently. "That's an accurate statement."

"Grew up there your whole life?"

"Uh huh."

"Must have been hard leaving," he concludes aloud, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and I shrug indifferently, not wanting to give away too much personal information to him.

"Well, yeah I guess that's true," he continues after an awkward moment. "Because you're only one town over, so it's not a huge deal. You could always just visit with your friends on the weekends. Even on weeknights if you wanted to."

"Yup."

"Did you have lots of friends back in Capitol?" he questions and I see the corners of his lips tilt up, teasingly before he adds, "I feel like you were a super popular girl."

"Definitely," I snort, leaning back more comfortably into the seat. "I was like, homecoming-queen-material popular back in Capitol."

"Knew it," he chuckles. "I totally had you pegged for that kind of girl."

"You're paying a little too much attention to me, apparently."

"So, a girl like you must have had some sort of boyfriend. You know, being "homecoming-queen-material popular" and all."

My body stiffens in the seat reflexively, but he continues on oblivious to the sour turn this conversation has taken.

"Anyone I need to be worried about?" he teases, nudging me and I jab him back with my elbow a little harder than I originally meant to. He winces.

"Don't be rude," I breathe out. "Asking personal questions is rude."

"Sorry," he responds in my same low tone, running a hand over the back of his head. "I mean, it was just a simple yes or no question. I was just trying to prepare myself for if some dude was going to come at me for giving his girlfriend a lift ho-"

"-You don't need to worry about it, because I don't have a boyfriend."

He's silent, and even if he's thinking about talking I don't give him the chance to before my lips are moving again.

"I am single. And I plan to _stay_ single. For a long, long, time," I hiss and the car grows quiet again. Peeta taps an obnoxious pattern with his fingers on the steering wheel and I fold my arms over my middle.

"_Well,"_ he finally says. "With _that_ attitude..."

I force back the urge to crack a smile and gnaw at the inside of my cheek instead. He should know better than to ask such personal questions, but then again maybe he really doesn't, because this is the kid who's been lying about his face all day.

At least, I'm almost _positive_ he's been lying.

"And on that note, I think it's time for a little music," he says, looping his pointed finger around in the air for a moment before pressing the button firmly.

_Here Comes the Sun _fills the silence in the truck and surprisingly, Peeta doesn't make a move to turn it off.

* * *

When we turn onto the street, Peeta pulls into his driveway and kills the engine but makes no move to get out. I watch him for a long moment, unbuckling my seatbelt slowly and waiting for him to make the first move. He doesn't.

He glances out the window at the sunny day, picks a nearly invisible piece of dust off of his dashboard and finally meets my curious gaze, casting only a simple smile in my direction. I wait through another awkward pause before sighing, wondering what sort of game he's playing.

"Are you planning to get out?"

"No," he answers shortly. "Are you?"

My mouth opens, but no words come out.

"If you aren't that's totally fine, as long as you don't mind coming into work with me. I have to be there in just about fifteen minutes."

"No... _no_," I begin embarrassedly, pulling the door open with haste. "I, uh... thanks for the ride."

I'm just about to shut the door on his smirking face when he waves his hand a couple of times and says goodbye.

"Goodbye," I blush.

"Goodbye," he says again, chuckling.

I shut the door tightly and am halfway up the driveway leading to the porch when I hear him call out my name through his open window.

"Yes?" I respond.

"Would it be too forward of me to ask to exchange numbers?" he's still wearing that goofball grin. "For convenience reasons, of course."

"But of course," I mimic, jogging down toward the front of his car and resting my elbow against the opened window. I toss my phone inside on his lap and take the one that's cradled loosely in his fingers, jabbing my digits in before swapping back.

"Great," he smiles.

"Good."

"Talk to you soon, then," he smirks, sticking his phone in the car's cup holder and I turn toward the porch without another word. He's speeding down the street before my hand has even turned on the door knob.

Prim isn't home yet, but should be any minute now. It's strange walking in to the sound of nothing, and I enjoy the rare moment of silence as I toss my book bag against the wall in the hallway and turn to the kitchen for a drink.

As I press a glass of water to my lips, I notice my phone flashing with a new message. _It can't possibly be him already..._

It's not. It's from Prim in response to my earlier message about not being on the bus. Her reply is an icy and short: _K. _Period and all. It was sent over fifteen minutes ago. I guess I hadn't been paying much attention.

When another five minutes pass, I begin to panic a little bit, hoping to god she just _stayed_ on the bus and didn't wander off because she was upset. I decide if she's not home in another ten minutes I'll go out looking for her - which could take a _very long time_ traveling by foot.

I sigh, taking another long drink of water before I hear keys fumble in the doors lock and then it fly open. I'm relieved for all of three seconds. The rest of my afternoon is spent wishing I hadn't wasted my precious minutes of silence worrying over her.

I hear her shoes hit the wall roughly as she kicks them off and then watch as her bag is chucked down the hallway before she appears in the kitchen, looking directly past me.

"Hi," I try, but the only response I receive is that of the cabinet smacking shut. She fills her cup up with lemonade and pulls two pills free from its container, downing them in one swallow. She throws the plastic cup into the sink, making me wince with the noise, and paces the kitchen.

"Prim?" I say again, keeping my voice light. "Everything all right?"

"Oh, I'm just _fine!"_

"Okay, I'm definitely picking up tones of sarcasm here," I laugh nervously, but it dies on my lips as she scowls in my direction.

"I had to ride the bus all by myself _and_ walk down the street by myself. I was expecting you to be there, too!" she bellows out before jabbing an accusatory finger in my direction. "Who did you come home with?"

"A boy from class," I say tightly, gritting my teeth. "He offered and I took it. And I'm sorry if that inconvenienced you Prim, but it's not that big of a deal."

"A boy from school?" Prim repeats, a hint of a giggle in her tone. "Some boy from school offered you a ride home? And you just _took_ it?"

"He's our next door neighbor, Prim, it's not that weird."

"Oh my god, Katniss!" she shouts, pulling at the roots of her hair. "Your boyfriend died like, a year ago, and you're already hitching rides home with so-"

"-You are in _no_ position to judge me, Prim!" I hate raising my voice with her, but with the mention of Gale something inside of me snaps, and I'm right in her face. "Just mind your own damn business. God, you have enough issues of your own, quit worrying about mine!"

Prim smirks at me, her expression laced with coolness in a way that has me itching to slap her across the face.

"Just saying, I doubt Gale would appreciate your enthusiasm to find a new fuck buddy in his absence. Why don't you just learn to keep your pants on, isn't that what got you into trouble the first time?"

"Why don't you learn to shut the fuck up?" I hiss, pushing past her and barreling down the stairs leading to the basement.

"_Oh_, good one!" I hear her fading voice mock before I fall down onto my mattress face first. I squeeze the fabric of the sheets with my hands as tightly as I can, my screams being muffled by the pillow.

I feel my entire body _shaking_ with the effort it takes to stay calm and force deep breaths from my mouth to steady my heart rate. Generally, I don't let Prim's commentary get under my skin like that, because I know she doesn't mean half the shit she says. She just gets worked up and wants people to hurt as badly as she is.

But today, it _hurts._

Prim usually doesn't go for below-the-belt shots like that, but I'd be willing to bet she had a bad day at school and my bailing on the bus was just the icing on the cake. Since I'm the only one around, I was left to face her wrath by myself, which I can handle.

Just not Gale.

My stomach twists and contracts as nausea pools inside of it and I actually feel like I'm going to throw up when I jump into a sitting position, wrapping my arms around my middle protectively.

It's only then that I realize _fuck, I'm crying_ and wipe my wet cheeks roughly with my forearm. I don't cry often because if there's one feeling I hate, it's feeling weak. But as a result of banking my tears, when I _do_ cry, I _cry._

And I guess this is a pretty good reason to do so.

* * *

I end up crying myself to sleep, curled in a ball on my mattress, and when I wake up it's after eight at night. I stretch out my cramped limbs and pick away some of the leftover crust in the corners of my eyes.

From one level up, I can hear Prim and Dad talking. She's telling him about the "mysterious boy" who gave me a ride home from school today, and how Dad always thinks I'm so perfect but if I _was_ so perfect, why was I riding around with some strange boy?

I roll my eyes, too tired to even _try_ getting upset by her words. Dad would probably question me about Peeta later on, and I'd explain how completely innocent the entire thing was and that'd be that. Dad loves Prim, but he rarely believes her stories, because she's known for her gift of embellishment.

Although sleep helped, and I actually feel rested for the first time in a long while, it hadn't helped the anxiety that still lingers in my system from my earlier argument with Prim.

I glance at my phone, and it's lit up with a new text message again, this time it _is_ from Peeta.

_Hey :) _

I need him to know. It's not fair to me or to him or to Gale for me to continue these games. My fingers trace the keypad for a long minute before I finally type out my reply, with knots twisting in my belly.

**Listen, I need you to know that just because you gave me a ride home today doesn't mean you have permission to like... kiss me or fuck me or anything like that. **

I wish I can take it back the second I hit send, and I picture him sitting on the other side of the wall right now, curiously looking over my reply.

_Who said I wanted to fuck you, Everdeen? _

Moments later, my phone buzzes with another incoming message from him.

_Although... now you have me thinking about it._

I frown at the flirtatious tone in his virtual voice and I can actually see the playful smirk that accompanies the racy message.

**Well stop thinking about it.**

What did he honestly expect me to do? Send him some dirty message back? Possibly a picture? No, he hadn't meant it seriously, it was a joke. He finds it amusing, making me uncomfortable.

It's just a joke.

My phone buzzes again in my palm.

_Too late._

* * *

Thanks for reading and to those of you who reviewed and added me to their favorites/alerts. Just a heads-up, there won't be an update next sunday. Starting Monday March 25th there is a week-long everlark writing challenge on Tumblr called "Prompts in Panem." For anyone interested in participating, visit their tumblr page **promptsinpanem **it's great fun!

So, see you in a couple weeks! Come chit chat if you'd like, I'm **finnickshardtrident **on tumblr!


	6. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins.**

A big thanks to my beta fnur for all her hard work on this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

The sky is a twinkling shade of blue when Prim and I walk silently to the end of the street for the bus. Without the sun's help to warm the atmosphere, our breaths come out in cold clouds and Prim's cheeks are a rosy shade of red as we shuffle on our feet to keep warm.

To my dismay, I had taken note of the fact that Peeta's truck was not in the driveway this morning when we first left. Prim noticed too, and of course commented on how he hadn't offered me a ride this morning.

I ignored her, pulling my hood up over my face even further but can't help but wonder if this is a direct result of my text-message outburst yesterday. I feel knots twist in my stomach as I recall the stupid (and accusatory) message I had sent to him after my nap.

There's probably about one hundred thousand more tactful ways to phrase what I said, but I chose to inform him he had no right to _fuck_ me. Like, seriously? I don't think I've ever flat out told a guy he wasn't allowed to _fuck_ me before. Beyond thinking I'm presumptuous, he must also think that I've been easy in the past.

I groan quietly, the sound muffled by the bus coming to a screeching halt.

Prim picks a seat toward the center of the half-full bus and I slide in beside her. We don't talk, but I can feel the ease radiating off of her with my presence. I do feel bad for ditching her yesterday, but she's fifteen years old. It's time she started taking care of herself a little.

Today after school is my first day at the library, so Prim is fully aware I won't be on the bus home this afternoon. I'll remind her a couple more times throughout the day just to get it ingrained in her mind.

As the bus pulls up to the school, I contemplate finding Peeta right now and explain to him in person what my text messages failed to last night. But, by the time I finish up at my locker the warning bell is ringing and I know it'll take me the full five minutes to get from my locker in no-mans-land to my first period class.

Actually, I'm sort of relieved I don't need to face him until lunch now. It'll give me plenty of time to figure out what it is exactly that I want to say so I don't make a bigger ass out of myself.

But who am I kidding? I told him he couldn't fuck me yesterday. I'm already the biggest asshole I know.

* * *

Annie is actually really cool.

We've basically become each others "go-to" partners for any activities we do in fourth period history. Today it's highlighting different regions on this huge ass map that takes up both of our desks.

Our teacher has instructed us all to be thorough because we "may or may not" be able to use it on our upcoming exam (which "may or may not" be a partner exam). God, I hate it when people aren't straightforward.

So, Annie and I are as thorough as you can fucking get on a huge ass paper map; penciling in things and using an array of bright colors that spot my vision when I glance away.

We work well together... emphasis on the _work. _Because as I glance around at other tables I notice that we're one of the few actually accomplishing anything.

I've begun to blend in at Panem. I'm no longer stared at like an alien as I walk the halls and I'm hardly ever referred to as the "new girl" anymore. I mean, no one really calls me "Katniss" yet, but they don't call me "new girl" either. Currently, I'm "Annie's friend." Which, I suppose isn't the worst personifier on the planet.

"I am so fucking bored," Annie grumbles, drawing a gold star to indicate Texas's capitol.

"I know," I sigh, tapping my stubby fingers against the table. There's only about five minutes left in the period and already students around us are beginning to pack up their things to prepare for the bells ring.

Annie and I ignore the chaos surrounding us and continue to color in our poster until the period is officially over, then with a heavy breath she folds it gently and places it in the pile of other scattered posters in the corner.

Like most days before lunch, I trail beside Annie as she stops by her locker and by the time we make it to lunch, the hallway is a ghost town.

But the lunchroom is very much alive.

Everyone's voices seem to echo off the walls to near deafening volumes and I find almost every day it takes at least five to ten minutes for the volume levels to become bearable. Twenty to be ignorable.

I search for Peeta... not because I really care _where_ he is, it's just that we usually walk through the lunch line together, but when I first catch glimpse of him he's already sitting at the table alone - no sign of lunch in sight. Annie doesn't seem half as confused as I feel and struts over to him, leaving my side without a word.

I walk through the lunch line alone.

It's _quesadilla _day, which could be appealing if it was from _anywhere_ other than here. Between the heat of the kitchen and heavy fumes of overcooked meat and shredded cheese, I'm rushing to get through the line.

I end up taking a quesadilla anyway; piling sour cream, shredded lettuce and salsa on top in hopes to drown out the taste. But I also grab an apple, two cookies, some jello and a water bottle before checking out.

Peeta is reading some book when I make it to the table, and doesn't glance up until I speak directly to him.

"New diet?"

He glances up from his book with furrowed eyebrows that turn up at the sight of me. I set my tray down before lifting my legs up and over the bench to sit across from him.

I'm beginning to recognize the other people who sit at this table, although I've never really engaged in conversation with some of them. On the other side of Annie is the giggling blonde who rang up our ice cream the other day and across from her sits a pale brunette with a pixie-styled haircut. She scowls at something the blonde says. She hasn't even so much as looked at me.

Then of course there's Annie and her boyfriend Finnick and then Peeta and myself.

"Nah," he replies easily to my previous comment. "Forgot lunch money. Already charged three times, so, they won't let me anymore."

"Forgetful boy," I tisk, pushing my tray more in his direction, an open invitation to take whatever he'd like. He only shakes his head though, dismissing the food before him even though I see a hint of longing in his eyes.

"I'm actually not that hungry."

"Bullshit."

His lips twist to the side, unsure and I sigh dramatically.

"Look, I'm not going to eat all of this so either you take some of it or it'll just end up wasted."

Reluctantly, he picks up the apple that sits in the corner of the tray and mumbles out a thank you.

"You should bring extra money tomorrow," I suggest, tossing the package of cookies his way too. "Pay off your_ debt to society_ so this doesn't happen again."

"Yeah," he speaks, rather dismissively.

I don't really know how to handle this quieter, no-joking Peeta and I've never been good at small talk, so I turn down to my food wordlessly and begin picking at it. We're both silent throughout the remainder of lunch. I eavesdrop in on Annie and Finnick's conversations a couple of times and Peeta reads a book, occasionally taking bites into the apple until its nothing but a core.

I sort of expected Peeta to bring up the text messages from last night without any prompting, but when the bell rings at the end of lunch and everyone begins to scatter it becomes clear he hadn't intended to.

_Maybe he's embarrassed about what he said too, _I think as I watch him throw away "our" tray after he offered. He walks back slowly, his lips turned down into a frown and waits for me quietly before slipping past the side door into the busy hallway.

We walk in silence.

I'm not even sure _why_ I'm walking with him, or why he expects me to, but given his current very out of character mood, I feel an odd wave of protectiveness for him wash over me, and it keeps my feet in time with his steps.

"Okay, are you honestly going to make me bring up the text messages?" I finally let out in a breath as I see my classroom approaching and window of opportunity dwindling.

Peeta's eyebrows furrow in confusion for a second before a playful glint flickers in his eyes.

"I thought you told me not to think about it anymore," he retorts with a clever smirk.

I'm stunned silent. Because _damnit he's right. _This conversation seemed completely normal and in my mind but now that the words have slipped my mouth I'm wishing I had a rewind button more than ever.

Peeta sighs dramatically.

"And damnit Katniss Everdeen, now you have me thinking about it again."

I snort and he nudges my arm playfully until I look up at him. My cheeks feel like they're on fire.

"It's a very hard image to get out of my mind," he whispers lowly.

"Knock it off, this is a serious conversation," I hiss, but can't ignore the stirring in my stomach with his sultry words.

"All right, I'll quit it," he shrugs. "But whenever you're ready to stop fighting temptation, I'll be waiting."

"Don't hold your breath," I grumble, and then wince because I distinctly remember saying those exact words to him about becoming friends...

And I guess that's what we kind of are now?

"You're the one who brought it back up!" he insists, laughter evident in his tone.

I open my mouth, hoping something witty and clever will fall out from it, but it doesn't and I turn away as my lips press back together in mortification.

"Here's my stop," he grunts, placing one hand on either side of the classroom door and leaning out so his face is mere inches from my own. I think about backing up - his proximity much too close for comfort - but then he wins.

And I can't have that.

He notices how I don't pull away and licks his lips just the slightest bit. And, I'd be lying if I said it didn't say it had just the slightest bit of an effect on me.

"Just so you know though," he whispers, like it's our little secret. "I _do_ think about it."

And then without another word, he turns back into the classroom whistling as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

* * *

Peeta's words continue to dance around my mind for the remainder of the day, no matter how hard I try shaking them. The words on the chalkboard twist and contort themselves to spell out his words, and my elderly (and very female) teacher's raspy voice has turned to the smooth honey tone of Peeta's, whispering gently to me...

_I _do_ think about it._

I swallow back a moan and shift uncomfortably in my seat as an unfamiliar and overwhelming tightness balls in my abdomen and an undeniable heat spreads throughout my lap. I recognize this feeling very well, it's the same one I used to get when Gale and my kisses would become heated... the _same_ feeling I had just moments before he was ripped away from me.

That does the trick and in moments the gut wrenching feeling of arousal is replaced by the gut wrenching feeling of guilt... of loss and loneliness...

And I'm not sure which one was more bearable.

* * *

At the sound of the final bell, I gather my things up alongside everyone else. Our teacher's final words are lost in the bustle of chairs scraping against the tiled floor and papers frantically being shoved into backpacks.

The room grows quieter as students scramble for the door leading out to the hallway, but I'm in no rush. I copy the homework written neatly in the corner of the blackboard onto a sticky note and tuck it inside one of my binders before zipping up my bag.

"Fuck, you're slow."

The sound of his voice forces my head to snap up quickly, and my eyes widen as they take in Peeta Mellark. He wears that same stupid smirk from earlier, leaning his weight against the desk ahead of me.

"What are you doing here?" I question, rising from my seat and slinging my bag over my arm with a sigh. I push past him but he doesn't seem too deterred and appears by my side an instant later. I catch a whiff of whatever it is he smells like and curse myself for breathing deeper.

"Well I waited for you by my locker for a few minutes, but that was before I realized you moved at the pace of a snail."

"Wha-" I begin and then let out an airy laugh. "_Why_ exactly where you waiting for me?"

"We're drive-home buddies, of course," he shrugs, as if I'm dense.

"No," I correct him, shaking my head. "I have to go to the library today. I'm not going home. So, I won't be in need of your assistance."

"Even better!" he exclaims rather loudly, turning a few heads of stray students. "I work right around there."

"A coincidence, I suppose you'd call it."

"Nah, not coincidence. Unless you consider it a coincidence the only bakery and library in Panem happen to be located in the heart of it."

"Kind of," I sigh.

"Either way," he shrugs. "_I_ work there, _you_ work there. So..."

"So?"

"So why not carpool?"

"Wait a second," I stop walking and shortly after his footsteps cease and he turns to me with a crooked smile.

"You work in a bakery that's located in the heart of Panem?"

He nods, confused.

"Then why the fuck didn't you let me take the bus the other day?"

He opens his mouth, his eyes confident as if he just expected a witty answer to fly out. When it doesn't, his face turns to one of panic and his cheeks flush red before he finally resorts to a defeated shrug of his shoulders.

"All right, you caught me. But in a way, this is all your fault."

"_My _fault?" I snort, crossing my arms with a shake of my head. "Oh, I can't wait to hear this one."

"Yeah, it is," he nods, all his confidence restored. "You see, you're an extremely stubborn person, Katniss Everdeen. And because of that, I had to make some bold moves in order to even befriend you... including offering you a ride home."

"Ever wonder if the reason I'm so stubborn is because I don't trust very easily?" I arch an eyebrow, hoping to gain one over him, but his playful smirk grows into a genuinely huge smile.

"What?"

"That must mean you trust me a whole lot," he grins.

"What? No. That's not at all what I said," I insist shaking my head, but he's already shaking his in protest.

"You took the ride home, you gave me your phone number," he points a finger in the direction of my chest. "Oh my God, you trust me!"

"Do. Not."

"Come along, Katniss Everdeen, mustn't be late to work," he says before picking up a whistling tune and holding the door open for me to pass him by.

He unlocks the door to his truck manually and grunts as he falls back into his seat, pulling the seatbelt over his body. I do the same with my own, running my chilly fingers over the warmth of the heater once he turns on the engine.

It's not until we're pulling out of the school that I remembered Annie had offered me a ride earlier today in fourth period history. _Shit. _I really hope she's not still waiting around, but I send her a message just in case, explaining I'd just meet her at the library.

"Ugh, the dread of texting," Peeta sighs a moment later, his head facing the road but shaking slowly left and right. "The most subtle form of anti-socialism."

"Oh, calm down," I shoot back. "I'm not being anti-social. See, look? Phone's away."

"Good. It's awfully rude."

"Ah. Well, I'll be sure to remind you of this next time you send me one."

He snorts, "Somehow, I don't doubt that."

It takes only a couple minutes by car to pass the old "Welcome to _The Heart of Panem"_ sign with holes in the wood and chips in the paint, and Peeta flies past the library even after I make an embarrassing _"ahh... ummm" _sound and point.

"You can't possibly have to be to work at... _Two-sixteen... _can you?"

"Well, no, but..."

"So what time do you start?"

He pulls over to the left jerkily a minute later, just about fifteen feet past the library in front of a bakery fashioned to appear old. It's dark inside and the sign on the door hangs _closed_ but Peeta opens his door anyway and shuts it tightly before peering back inside at my confused expression.

The door opens and a cool blast of air fills the open space.

"You comin'?"

"Where?"

"Oh, just get out of the car. Always a thousand and one questions with you!" he teases before shutting the door once more. I watch him walk around the front of the car to my side and pull the handle open before bowing over dramatically.

"After you, madam."

We walk up to the locked doors and Peeta fiddles with the keys in his pocket for a minute before pulling them loose and opening the door, flipping on a mess of lights until the place is significantly brighter.

"Be a dear and flip the sign for me, would you?" he asks of me, and I do so without a word in return, holding onto it so it doesn't swing annoyingly from left to right. He makes quick work around the small space, washing his hands and pulling an apron over his chest before knotting it in a blink.

He notices me staring at motions with the tilt of his head for me to join him.

"Want some cookies? They'll only take about twenty minutes."

I don't have to be to work until three, and I can literally see the main entrance to the library from where I stand in the bakery, so with a shrug I agree to play culinary with Peeta Mellark, which excites him far greater than I expected.

"Here, hold your hair," he instructs, and I listen, gasping as he appears behind me to pull the string over my head. I tuck my braid over my shoulder and stand stiffly still while he ties a knot, his fingers brushing along the small of my back.

"Can't get your clothes all dirty," he breathes and I blush as my mind immediately picks up on the hinting lingering in his words. He clears his throat before appearing by my side again, pulling out some cutting boards.

I reach out to grab one, but Peeta's hand lands on my wrist, flicking it away.

"Wash up first," he instructs, his tone oddly professional. "No dirty hands in my kitchen!"

_He should really stop saying dirty._

I wash my hands and when he doesn't look wipe them dry on my jeans before crossing my arms.

"So, what's first, Chef Mellark?"

"First, we need to make the dough. So we'll need flour, eggs, sugar, a little bit of water, oh! and some cinnamon. Katniss, you grab the vegetable oil, it's in that drawer down there."

He points to where _down there_ is and I grab it, along with some mixing bowls and whisks upon his request as he gathers the other needed ingredients.

"And what kind of cookies are we making?"

"Snickerdoodles," Peeta winks. "I happen to make the best snickerdoodles in Panem."

"Really?"

"I don't know," he chuckles. "But they're not bad."

I laugh out loud before I can bite it back and notice the way Peeta stops to look at me intently, his eyes light with something other than amusement.

"What?" I scowl.

"Nothing," he shakes his head. "You're just apparently not as miserable as I originally thought."

"You caught me off guard is all," I retort quietly, but he's already turned his attention back to the cookies.

I watch as he adds in several ingredients without even measuring and mixes them together until they blend into a rather delectable looking cookie mix.

He catches me staring from the corner of his eye and his lips lift up into a soft smile before he holds the spatula out to me.

"Wanna give it a try?"

I narrow my eyes, taking the bowl from his hand and start stirring at a much slower pace than he had.

"I've made cookies before," I spit, irritation rising within me as I catch him nervously glancing into the bowl, as if I could really mess up _stirring._

"Easy, no one's saying you haven't," he chuckles. "Just making sure you get all the butter chunks out. It can be a little tricky sometimes. You're doing good though."

"I know."

He laughs at me again.

We're quiet for a while after that; me stirring, him lurking, until he informs me the mix is stirred well enough and it's time to roll the dough into balls.

"They shouldn't be much bigger than this," he says, holding up a perfectly round and doughy ball between his thumb and forefinger.

He grabs a chunk of the dough and hands me another, and by the time I've finished crafting one of my mediocre balls, he's finished five. I huff, pushing my bangs from my face with my forearm and set my few down on the cookie sheet beside his.

"Not too bad, Everdeen," Peeta smirks. "You could come work here, you know."

"Library's more my style."

"Yeah," he agrees. "And I was being kind of generous. You aren't that good."

My head snaps up in his direction and I feel my mouth parting in preparation for retort, but he only winks at me, killing the words on my lips and I turn back to the ground with an embarrassed blush.

"And now, Katniss Everdeen," he begins, pushing the tray into the heated oven. "We wait."

"What _ever_ will we do?" I ask, placing my hands on either side of the counter top and pushing my hips up to sit on top of it. Peeta mimics my movements a moment later, coming to rest beside me.

He purses his lips, looking up to the ceiling before, "Annie is really excited to have someone else to work with her at the library. She's tried recruiting like... a dozen people, but no one wants to work in that dingy place."

"It's cool. Annie's cool," I shrug.

"Yeah, she likes you too," he nods, awkwardly, like he doesn't _really_ want to be talking about Annie and books and her relationship to me.

I can't say it's the number one subject of conversation on my mind either, but I've put my foot in my mouth enough for one day.

Peeta begins whistling an unfamiliar tune and taps his fingers against the countertop to fill the silence. I tap along idly beside him, but otherwise don't join in.

It's oddly serene sitting here quietly with Peeta. Because, he doesn't expect me to keep up a steady flow of conversation, or laugh at his stupid jokes, or even respond, really. I don't need to be fake, because for some reason he doesn't mind being around me when I'm actually being _me._

When the timer goes off for the cookies, Peeta hops down from the counter and pulls on some oven mitts, waving the warm air out of his face as he opens it up. I jump down too, clearing a way for the freshly baked goods - which smell delicious, _damnit - _and wait for him to drop the scalding pan where our butts previously laid.

I glance back at Peeta, curious as to what is taking him so long and notice how he stands completely still, biting his lip and eyes casted downward on the lower half of my body.

"Wha-" I've barely gotten out before he burst into laughter, placing the pan on top of the stove to double over, holding onto his stomach. I stare at him with confusion, eyebrows knitting together and a stinging feeling lacing my cheeks as I start to feel self conscious.

"You... you must have sat... on some flour!" he inhales deeply and then exhales with shaky laughter, pointing to his own butt. "You've got some on your tush."

I press my backside against the drawers and run my palms over my jeans several times, noticing the white cloud that forms around it.

"Shut up."

"Oh, that's why you're fun to hang around. You're so unintentionally funny."

"So glad I can amuse you," I grit out as he wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, his face stretched like he were putting on mascara.

"Here, try a cookie," he says, sticking his spatula underneath each one individually, piling them onto a plate. We take the two closest to the top and bite into them at the same time - me by shoving almost half of it past my lips and Peeta by breaking off a corner to delicately taste.

"Mmph," I try, but then hold a finger up, chew, swallow and try again. "Okay, these are pretty good."

"Iknomph," Peeta grins between bites and I make out the nonsense to mean: _I know. _

He yanks a carton of milk from the fridge and pours two glasses before sliding one across the counter where I stand.

"Is this what you do all day?" I tease after taking a quick chug. "Fool around and bake cookies?"

"Basically," he snorts. "There's not much to do if no one comes in, but occasionally I get to make a cake or a platter or something. Mostly breads though."

"How do you stay so in shape?" I didn't mean to ask it out loud and as soon as the last word slips past my lips, my cheeks are stinging. "I didn't mean-"

"No use taking it back, Katniss Everdeen," Peeta smirks, flexing his biceps - which bulge underneath the material of his form fitted shirt - and I try hard not to stare, blinking before focusing back on the countertop.

"You meant it. Whether or not you meant to sayit is another story entirely. But, I'm flattered. Really. I didn't think you noticed such _trivial_ things."

"Neither did I," I grumble, all the while my mind is screaming: _fuck, shit, fuck, damnit, shit _at me.

I reach for a cookie - _anything_ to occupy myself - and his fingers brush along mine. When I glance up, cautiously, his eyes are focused in on me and we lock stares similar to the way we had in the hallway earlier.

His lips twist up at the corners when he notices that I have no intentions of looking away, or pulling my hand from his own. I narrow my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek as silence surrounds us.

Without warning, Peeta pulls his hand from my own sharply and looks away.

"Damnit," he says, running a hand through his messy hair. "I never lose staring contests."

"I have to go to work," I say suddenly and his smile falters.

"Oh, right. Well here, bring some cookies for you and Annie to snack on. I have a figure to watch and everything," he winks, patting his flat (and not only flat, but I'd be willing to bet it's _toned_ too) stomach.

He places most the cookies into a plastic bag and dumps the rest into a display case. I take them from him quickly, shoving them down into my bag before turning toward the door.

I almost walk out without saying goodbye, and when I turn around to see him smirk knowingly, I wish I had.

"Um... bye."

"See you later, Katniss."

* * *

I'm not surprised to see it's only Annie in the otherwise abandoned library. Her back is turned toward me and she leans over a moving cart of books, appearing to be alphabetizing them. She raises a hand without looking and waves.

"Hey," I respond, throwing my bag up on the counter she stands behind. She pushes her bangs out from out of her eyes and smiles before her eyebrows furrow.

"Did you walk here?" she asks, eyes narrowed. "Because I know you have that weird thing about favors, but bringing you here hardly counts as a favor since I work here _too."_

A blush creeps over my cheeks, and for a second I debate lying. But, I'm a terrible liar - like _horrendous - _and then I'd end up having to explain the entire situation _and _why I lied about it.

"No," I begin with the shake of my head. "I um... I actually got a ride with... er... Peeta?" I wince as my statement comes out more as a question, and Annie's confused expression only deepens.

"Peeta?" she inquires with a cocked neck. Her mouth opens like she's about to ask more questions, but she only stares at me, as if she expects me to just _tell_ her.

"Well he offered and made it kind of hard to refuse," I huff, getting irrationally annoyed about the whole situation. "He gave me a ride home the other day and just mentioned he could bring me to the library today, no big deal."

Annie watches me with her lips pressed into a tight smile.

"He only works across the street," I continue to try defending my actions.

"And I work _with_ you," she giggles, then holds her hands up when I try defending myself. "No, no, no, it's fine really, say no more-"

"But-"

"No more," she repeats. "I'll uh... let _Peeta_ handle your ride situation from now on."

I roll my eyes pulling out the slightly crumpled cookies from my bag and toss them her way. She grabs the still warm bag and pulls one out with a look of excitement, biting into it with a content sigh.

"Bless that boy."

She pulls another out and sets the bag back on the counter and we're both silent for a minute as she chews.

"I keep telling Finny to work at that bakery with Peeta. I think it could be good for him," she shrugs.

"Him? Or you?" I tease and she snorts, crumbs flying from her mouth and onto the floor surrounding her.

"Well, all right it might be for a little selfish gain," she winks and then her eyes light up. "Hey! I meant to tell you, I took out the other copy of that book."

"...Book?"

"You know, the one you checked out a while back. _The Limitless Dream, _right?"

"Oh, right. Yeah. Cool."

"Yeah," she shrugs, leaning against the register. She pulls a beat-up copy of the book from her backpack and waves it in her hand - as if to prove it - before flipping through the pages a couple times through. "I'm only on the first couple of chapters, so shit is pretty confusing right now, but it's good."

"It gets better."

"You know, I've read a lot of books, sitting around here on my own... like _a lot_ of books, Kat," she stresses, her eyeballs getting bigger with her admission. "But, I'd never even heard of this one."

"It was tucked away pretty well," I agree. Even I had found it simply by chance.

"Well, I was beginning to think I'd read every book in this place," she laughs awkwardly and I offer her a smile, because I'm really only half paying attention, the other half of my mind is focused on the still warm cookies that sit on the counter next to Annie's book.

"I was thinking, we should totally do like a book club or something," she says after a long pause, snapping me out of the trance I'd fallen into. I raise an eyebrow as she continues to explain how it can get pretty boring around here and we could coordinate books and chapters and discuss them during our shifts.

I'm not sure how to go about explaining to her that I don't exactly _plan_ to read anything. I just pick. And also, I know for a fact I can't promise to only read to a certain point. It feels too much like an assignment then something I do just because I enjoy it, and that takes the pleasure out of it completely.

But, I also don't want to totally crush her idea.

"That could be fun," I say, and if it comes off as dismissive, she doesn't acknowledge it.

Annie nods with a plastered smile before turning the moving rack of books that have seemed to pile up over the past couple of days. As she begins to go through them, I notice a layer of dust on top of one of the registers and run my pointer finger over the top with a wrinkled nose.

Annie notices and shoots me a sheepish look.

"Yeah... a nice spring cleaning might be needed."

"Doesn't the owner care that this place is..."

"Gross?" she finishes, her lips pressed into a flat line. "Nah. He's never in here anyway, so what skin is it off his back?"

"I don't know. You'd think he'd have a little pride in it or something," I shrug, noticing all the light bulbs that have been blown for god knows how long. Annie shrugs her shoulders before shaking her head from left to right.

"Whatever. If he doesn't care, why should I, you know?"

I nod in agreement, because quite honestly, even if we worked for _weeks_ to clean this place up, it'd still look pretty shitty.

"Does he ever... come in?"

"Occasionally," Annie nods. "He'll probably stop in one of these days to meet you. But, prepare yourself now. He's a real asshole."

I'm silent and her smile turns more genuine.

"Don't worry. Just give it to him back and he'll loosen up. I mean, he's always an ass but he's... you know, _less_ of one."

* * *

The sun had long since set when we walk out into the chilled air and Annie locks the door to the library entrance. I pull my coat in closer to my body and breathe out heavily creating a cloud around my mouth.

Annie tugs the door once more to make sure it won't open before digging in her purse for her keys.

"So, do you want a ride home tonight?" she begins, rather coyly. "Or will you be getting one from Peeta?"

"Shut up," I say, hoping to carry some weight in my words, but it ends up coming out in an airy grumble. Annie laughs, smacking my back playfully before leading me off to her car.

And I curse myself for glancing back at the bakery before it disappears completely from my line of vision. Peeta is still inside, lights on, packaging up a loaf of bread for a customer. He smiles easily at the man before accepting the money from him and shaking his hand goodbye.

"Miss _Everdeen," _Annie sings and my head snaps back in her direction. She casts me a knowing smirk before nodding her head in the direction of her car parked along the dead street.

Once inside she starts the engine up but turns to look at me instead of moving.

"He gets off in ten minutes," she winks and I groan, placing my head in my hands.

"Drive!"

* * *

Thank you for reading and all the reviews/adds to story/favorite alerts :) Sorry for the extended break, but I hope you all got to check out the amazing stories submitted to "Prompts in Panem" (tumblr: promptsinpanem). It was a lot of fun!

Come chit chat with me on tumblr: finnickshardtrident and also twitter: passtheheroin.


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